by David Clark
“I saw her,” confessed William.
“You did? Is it safe to assume this was not a first?”
William nodded his head.
Father Henry then asked the question that broke William, “How long?”
His body language changed. The upright, arm-crossed man that leaned against the sink became the shoulder-slouched and weak-kneed child that now stumbled for the chair across from Father Henry. There was a great sigh that came from down deep, beyond his physical form, and escaped into the world around them. It was a release. The release of a secret pent up for over a decade. The release of the stress and tension he felt because of his gift. He wasn’t alone. There was someone else like him.
7
“I was twelve.”
Father Henry removed his black wide-brimmed hat. The fingers of his right hand pinched the top, while the ones on his left traced the brim and made sure everything was straight. Once satisfied, he placed it on the table next to the half-full glass of water. “So, you have been dealing with this for some time now. Let me guess. It starts with a cold shiver on your neck. Maybe a few beads of sweat, and a feeling deep in the pit of your stomach you can’t explain. Have I described it so far?”
Upon hearing his gift described so astutely, William straightened his shoulders and sat back in the chair. His wide-open, shocked eyes answered Father Henry’s question without uttering a sound, but there was more to add. “I can’t explain it, though. It doesn’t take me long before I see them.”
“William, what do you see? A shadow?”
“Oh, no. Father, I see them. People. I see people, glowing. They disappear and reappear, right in front of me.”
The long slender fingers of Father Henry’s right hand shot up to his chin and rubbed it as he stared through William. The clarification caught him off guard, and created another nervous silence in the small farmhouse. Among the breeze, William could hear the rough skin of his hand catch on the stubble as it rubbed his chin.
“They look like people to you?”
“Yes, except for the eyes. They are just black and hollow.”
This answer was followed by a great deal more rubbing of his chin. William wondered which would wear through first: the stubble, or the skin on his fingers. The chair creaked as he leaned forward, but only at the waist. Father Henry’s back remained straight up and down. He mumbled a few phrases to himself. William thought he heard him say, “He is more sensitive than I am,” but he wasn’t sure he made it out correctly. The mumbling was fast and under his breath.
His next phase was not a mumble, it was a direct question. Its tone more forceful than the previous questions, “Do you talk to them? Interact? You need to tell me.”
“Oh, no. They don’t respond when I try. I can yell or scream, and they never pay any notice. They only notice when they run into me.”
Father Henry’s gaze moves from looking through William, to straight into his eyes. There was no blinking in the icy expression, “Run into? You mean they touch you?”
“Yes, Father. Or I touch them. They usually turn or go another way,” William answered his question, but grew concerned. This tone and expression was not one he had seen from the normally cheerful priest. The person in front of him had a more foreboding presence.
“And last night?”
“She was walking straight toward the horse, so I stood in between and let her hit me. When she did, she turned and walked through the wall.”
“You weren’t afraid?”
“I was more concerned with getting kicked by the colt,” confessed William.
That answer drew a little chuckle from the grim-faced priest, and gave William the first sight of the person he knew, but it didn’t last long. The chuckle and cockeyed smile disappeared. The grim stone-like expression he saw for the previous few moments once again took its place on his face. Deep in thought, his eyes once again stared straight through William. Their gaze was so strong, he could feel it drilling deep into his soul. Powering the drill was a question, a thought, a concern. William knew it. The expression on his guest’s face spoke of the gravity of the question.
“William, I need you to be honest with me.”
“Of course, Father.”
The hands that had stroked the stubble on Father Henry’s chin now relaxed to the middle of his chest and faced each other in prayer. “Have you currently, or in the past, practiced the dark arts to summon or invite a spirit, demon, or Lucifer himself into this world?”
The question was a strong right uppercut to William’s chin. It knocked him up out of his chair to a stand with an explosion. His quick movements sent the chair teetering behind him before it finally settled down, with all four legs flat on the floor. Father Henry remained stoic; the only movement were his eyes as they followed William up. This was not just a curious friend, or a priest asking about something they’d seen. This was more serious. It was an inquisition, a witch hunt.
There hadn’t been one in St. Margaret’s Hope in several years, but there had been one in William’s lifetime. He remembered it as clear as day. It was a teen girl, Mary SaintClair, if he remembered correctly. She walked around town all hours of the day and night, mumbling to herself. Animals always acted spooked when she neared. Birds seemed to follow her path overhead. Especially the black crows. Flocks upon flocks of crows followed her through town and across the meadows. As the tale goes, Father Henry and several of the town elders went out one night and found her sitting in the middle of an open field with birds all around her. The elders encircled her, and the birds, and walked in slowly and cautiously. As they moved closer to her, the birds cawed like mad before they flew off and left Mary alone in the meadow. She pointed at the elders and mumbled. Several of the elders fell to their knees while the others surrounded her and tied her hands behind her. The next day, a hearing was held. Those that had fallen to their knees testified they’d felt sick to their stomach. Others spoke of how animals had reacted around her, or how the fog parted as she walked through. The hearing was quick, short, and brutal. The sentence was just as quick, short, and brutal. After the verdict was handed down, Mary was taken outside and tied to a stake, where her soul was purged clean by fire. She continued to mumble, not scream, during the purge.
William insisted, “No, Father. This is not something I asked for. They just appear. Honestly, it is nothing more than that.”
The stony expression on Father Henry’s face cracked. The comforting smile he displayed to his congregation began to show through each of the cracks. Warmth returned to his eyes. Both of which calmed William’s nerves. He wasn’t sure if what he had said was responsible for this to be honest, he had no proof. He could imagine a similar hearing with John testifying against him, and Gerald adding in what he had seen just last night. The star witness would be Father Henry, who would give a full account of the conversation they’d just had, with a few overdramatic additions for the benefit of the judge, and the spectators.
“William. I understand. Your father was the same way.” Father Henry stood up and retrieved his hat from the table. His right hand pinched it at the top, while the left hand traced the brim to make sure it was straight, before he placed it level on his head. On his way to the door he said, “It seems you now have two secrets. I must be going.” Without another word or motion toward William, he left out the door. William was left standing in front of a chair with a single thought in his head, “My father?”
8
Weeks came and went. The pasture was plowed and planted, and the first sprigs of turnips had broken through the ground. What hadn’t broken through were the many questions in William’s mind. He had made many trips to town. Some to bring crops to the market. Others for shopping or just coming in for a pint with John.
Many times, he passed Father Henry, but none more frequent than the weekly Sunday holy eucharist. William expected a different look from him, now that he was aware of his secret, but there was nothing. His eyes never settled on him any more than normal when
he delivered his sermon from the pulpit. On the way out, he greeted and shook his hand, just like he always had. William debated on whether to approach him himself, maybe that was what he was waiting on, but never did. His gift had made him feel different before, now there was a small side of him that felt that it made him a target, and would rather just blend in with the masses.
It was four weeks after their conversation, William had spent a day out in the field pulling weeds and adding a layer of manure to add some nutrients to the soil. To say he smelled like shit was an understatement. Even the animals moved away from him as he passed on his way to the farmhouse. A bath was in order, but it would take days to get the smell out of his hands. When he opened the door to the farmhouse, he was surprised to find two guests sitting at his table. Both of the guest were surprised by the stench that came through the door with William.
Neither guest recoiled with a repulsed look on their face. Just a little twitch of their nose, and a wider than normal opening of their eyes, were the only visible signs from the two proper men seated at the table. Each had already made themselves at home. Both with a glass of water on the table, one a little emptier than the other. Two black wide-brimmed hats sat on the table next to each glass. The men sat upright, their focus was fixed on William, who stood in the doorway, more than a bit startled by the scene in his house.
“Father?” William asked, in an attempt to seem cordial and less alarmed. Inside, his mind screamed, “What are you doing in my house?”
“Excuse the intrusion, William. There is someone I need you to meet. Please come in and have a seat.”
William held both his hands up to remind Father Henry of his current unclean state. The saying is cleanliness is next to godliness, and there was a whole lot of godliness in the room for him to be that unclean. “Do you mind if I clean up while we talk?”
“Of course not.”
William stood over the sink and used a large block of soap to lather up his hands and arms. The fat-based soap produced a nice layer of brown up to his elbow. Father Henry started to talk as William poured water out of the pitcher to rinse his arms for the first time. Based on his best guess, he would have maybe three more rinses before he would need to pump more water.
“William, this is Bishop Emmanuel. He has come a long way to meet you. He is interested in your gift.”
The distinguished white-haired gentleman seated to Father Henry’s left stood up. He was quite a bit shorter than both Father Henry and William. He almost gave the appearance of being frail, but when he extended his hand to William, the scars and callouses from a hard life were obvious. Instead of meeting his hand, William held up two still-stained soap and filth caked hands. The bishop withdrew his hand and looked around the room, while uttering, “Excuse`”
The word meant nothing to William, but the accent he heard meant everything. He was not from around here, not even close. It was one he had never heard before. The only way he could describe it was smooth, and pleasant to the ears. The look he gave Father Henry conveyed the question he had in his head.
“That’s right, William. He is Italian.”
He would have to trust Father Henry on that. There was no other option. William had never met an Italian. It would only be an assumption that he was from Italy, a place he had only heard about and seen on a map in school. That was one of those far off places that was out there. Out in the rest of the world that William had dreamed of visiting to find his greater purpose, his adventure. Now, someone from one of those far-off places stood in front of him, in his farmhouse.
“Vatican City, to be more precise,” continued Father Henry.
That fact astonished William more than the first. He knew where and what the Vatican City was. He also knew what that meant, but that couldn’t be. Father Murray was Anglican, a prince of the Church of England, not exactly a favored bedfellow of the Vatican. If you said they were mortal enemies, that might be considered a stretch for some, but considering the wars and lives lost, others might consider it true. The Vatican and its princes were forced out of England and the dutchy of Scotland, by King Henry the VIII because of a difference in principles. Even this long after that schism, it was still considered a crime against the crown to associate with anyone from the Vatican. William knew that, and he assumed Father Henry knew that. How could he not?
William ignored the shock and alarm that ran through his bones. His imagination had the king’s guards standing outside his door, just waiting to break it down. After a swallow to clear his throat, and to push his imagination out of the way, he managed to say, “It’s nice to meet you Bishop Emmanuel.”
“The pleasure is mine, William,” said the scratchy Italian voice. He continued, “ Father Henry tells me you can see ghosts and interact with them.”
“Yes, I see them. I can’t talk to them.”
Emmanuel looked back at Father Henry, who explained William’s response. “No, he can’t talk to them, but he can touch them… or… I guess the better way to say it is, they are aware of him when they come in contact with him, and move away.”
Emmanuel turned back to William, and studied him, up and down. “Oh, I see. What do you feel?”
William clarified, “You mean, when they walk through me?”
The bishop merely dipped his head forward.
“Cold. Very Cold. Wherever they touch is cold as they pass through.”
The two visitors shared a common inquisitive look at each other. William may have had the same look on his face. Questions filled his mind at the moment, and so far, no answers had been offered.
“William, why don’t you have a seat?”, Father Henry requested. Bishop Emmanuel returned to his seat; hands folded on his lap. Both men watched him as he sat, spots of unrinsed soap clung to his arms. When his weight settled on the chair, he sat and looked back and forth at both men for what was next. The problem was, neither of them verbalized a response. Instead, they once again shared inquisitive looks at each other. It was as if this was their own secret language. “Maybe it was something they were taught at seminary school,” thought William.
“William, you have a gift,” explained Bishop Emmanuel. “One that very few have. Those that do, are called sensitivo. As you can imagine, everyone is not the same. Some people can feel their presence. Some are stronger than others. They can… read their… I mean, hear their thoughts. It is strong enough in others to catch a glimpse of them as they move in and out of our world. Some see them, but then there are the ones like you; the rarest of all. Those that can see them, and touch or talk to them. It is a very special gift bestowed upon your family by God, to have that ability.”
“To put it in some perspective William, Emmanuel explained to me earlier that there are less than what… a dozen families with your ability?” Father Henry looked at his fellow visitor for confirmation, which he received with an astute and thoughtful nod.
He knew he was different, and had only ever heard Father Henry describe it as a gift. What was a gift for one person, could be considered a curse to others. To William, he also considered it more of the latter. It was something he hid from everyone; he hadn’t even talked to his father about it. John was the only confidante he told, and that was because he was there once, and that was all. If he hadn’t been there that one time, he would have never said anything. The same with Father Henry. There was something else, though. Another phrase that had been repeated again, for the second time. This phrase was stuck in his craw, but was surging up and forward until it exploded out of William’s mouth, “You said this was given to my family. What about my family?”
“It is like a royal bloodline. Your bloodline has this ability,” answered Bishop Emmanuel.
“William, I don’t know for sure, but I do recall several conversations with your father about him feeling an evil wind, or something not of this world, out there,” interjected Father Henry. He continued, with a hint of a warning in his voice, “Now, I could be reading something into his statements that was not real, b
ut knowing about you, now…” His face crinkled to make a flat smile.
William knew what he meant. It was a logical leap. What struck him, though, there was nothing William could recall that would lead him to believe his father could see ghosts. He was always a strong willed and confident man, who spoke his mind. That had even cost him some friends over the years. A strong lesson his father had once taught him, not everyone really wants to hear the truth. He would just have to accept that the truth might hurt some. William and John saw plenty examples of that during the verbal fights their fathers would engage in. It always started the same way; William’s father would state a truth that John’s father wasn’t ready to hear. They always ended the same way too. John’s father walking away, convinced he had won the argument. William and his father walking away as his father stated, “He just wasn’t ready for the truth”. Each of them may have been covered in mud or dirt, if the argument was tense enough.
Through all those truths and speaking of his mind, William couldn’t remember once where his father had hinted at this gift. Not anything that matched the comments Father Henry mentioned. It was possible that such things were not stated in mixed company. That was all in the past now, the question that sat in front of William now was, what’s next? He found it hard to accept that someone came all the way from the Vatican, with the travel and the risk, just to sit in his kitchen and tell him about something he pretty much already knew.
“Well, my father never said anything about it to me, if he did have what you call is ‘the gift’. Gentleman, what can I do for you?” William looked at Bishop Emmanuel. His eyes bristled with all the confidence he could muster up, “I am sure you didn’t come all this way to tell me what I already knew.”
Both gentlemen seem surprised, and relieved, by William’s newfound confidence. It didn’t shock or take them aback. If anything, it drew smiles from the two men. Father Henry’s was one of pleasure and approval. William had to assume the Bishop’s was the same, but it was hard to tell. It looked painful to move the weathered and wrinkled skin on his face enough to produce an expression that pushed the cheeks up on his gaunt face.