“I wonder the same thing,” said Father Bundren, “but I’d better get back to the auditorium. I’m due to speak, and I hope speak to some purpose, in about ten minutes.”
They returned and went inside together. Father Bundren moved purposefully along the aisle toward the stage. Lee Pitt came past him to meet Thunstone.
“I want to invite you to a sort of potluck dinner before the Shakespearean performance tonight,” he said. “I can’t invite all the guests, there won’t be enough for everybody.”
“I’m afraid that I must have dinner with Countess Monteseco here,” said Thunstone.
Pitt looked at her, smiling his admiration. “Bring her along, too. It will be simple, I say—-just a big pot of minestrone and some garlic bread. Let me find you in the lobby of the Inn, say a quarter to six. We’ll eat early and then go watch Grizel Fian’s show.”
“That will be a pleasure,” said Sharon. “Thank you, Professor.”
Pitt went away. Reuben Manco came to join Thunstone and Sharon.
“Might we sit together?” he said. “I looked for Shimada while I was speaking, but I never spotted him. And I can’t see him anywhere now.”
They found seats. Around them, voices jabbered.
“Why would Shimada want to miss your speech?” Thunstone wondered.
“You’ll have to ask him. The mysterious East, you know.”
Pitt and Father Bundren were on stage. As Pitt spoke into the microphone, the babble of voices died down. Pitt introduced Father Bundren, who took his place at the lectern. His head bowed for a moment; perhaps he was praying. Then he looked up. His eyes quested over the well-filled auditorium.
“I’ve been introduced here as a priest of the Roman Catholic Church,” he began, “but I won’t try to preach a sermon. For some years I’ve been occupied in the study of world history, particularly in that bracket that deals with diabolism. At present I’m at work on what I hope will be an informative book on the subject. Perhaps some day it will be published and will be found worth inclusion in your fine library here. But while you wait for that, there is already a good assortment of books on creepy supernatural subjects in that same library of yours. You’ll find, for instance, the works of Father Montague Summers on witchcraft and devil worship, as well as on the werewolf and the vampire. He is tremendously erudite, he quotes authorities in various languages which he expects you to translate for yourself. And he believes implicitly in witches, monsters, magical phenomena and ghosts—indeed, he claims to have seen a ghost. I recommend his books to you.”
Again he studied his audience. Sitting beside Thunstone, Manco made notes on a pad of paper. Thunstone saw that he wrote in the Cherokee alphabet.
“Devil worship goes back to prehistoric times,” Father Bundren went on. “We find laws against it in the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Old Testament, at one time ascribed to Moses. Ancient Greece and ancient Rome recognized and feared diabolism. That interesting, perverse worship came in strongly with Gnosticism, almost as the Christian era began. The Twelve Apostles opposed it, fought it, not with entire success—Gnosticism still exists here and there. But when you’re told that there was bloody persecution of witch belief and witch organization from the beginning of the Church—that’s an oversimplification, and a false one.”
He waited for his words to sink in. Thunstone and Sharon listened silently. Manco continued to take notes.
“As a matter of demonstrable historical fact,” Father Bundren said, “the early Church fathers preached against witchcraft for centuries without advocating stem reprisals. The first papal bull launched against witchcraft was that of Pope Alexander the Fourth, in 1258. That was followed by a series of campaigns against the belief, in which I don’t know how many thousands of accused witches were executed, in various untidy fashions. The last Pope to make a clear condemnation was Urban the Eighth, in 1631. But witches were accused and tried and condemned for many years after that, by both Catholic and Protestant courts. In these enlightened times, we recognize that many were found guilty who were only demented or deceived or just driven to confession by torture. Here in America, twenty accused witches went to trial and punishment in Salem. Maybe some were innocent and were condemned by confused judges of that frontier court, but two or three, anyway, were guilty.” Again he looked around. “Guilty!” he repeated. “Guilty of what? Of transgression against the English law that, of course, prevailed in the American colonies. It made the practice of witchcraft a crime. Two or three, I say behaved in a manner that showed that they believed themselves to be practicing witchcraft. Therefore they were guilty of breaking a law, and the court found them so.”
Somewhere in the crowd, Thunstone sensed a flutter, and looked in that direction. It was Grizel Fian, seemingly stirred. She seemed almost to be ready to stand and say something.
“And now,” said Father Bundren, “it behooves us to consider another definition, the definition of justice. But I can’t offer you any such definition. I find myself harking back to what was said once by an illustrious pagan, Socrates, as quoted in Plato’s Republic. Years ago, I was impressed enough to commit to memory what Socrates said, and here it is, if any of you would like to note it down.”
Another wait. Thunstone saw Manco poise his pen above his pad.
“Socrates was talking with half a dozen friends at the house of Cephalus beside the harbor of Piraeus,” said Father Bundren, “and he wound up by saying—and I quote: ‘For I know not what justice is, and therefore I am not likely to know whether it is or is not a virtue, nor can I say whether the just man is happy or unhappy.’ ”
He cocked his head, and smiled, “All right, can anyone here do better than Socrates at a definition? We’re all caught up in our own culture. It’s like being well dressed. A naked savage, in his own eyes and the eyes of his fellow tribesman, is dressed in the height of fashion. As for proper religious observance, see how in India a cult that has been suppressed —Thuggee—that worshiped Kali by committing murders. We all adhere to the precepts of our various religions, if indeed we have any religion. Too bad if we have none. I suppose that any religion—even Thuggee—is better than none at all, but maybe I’m prejudiced because of my profession.”
He went on to quote from the Scriptures, and suggest that the reported casting out of devils by Jesus and the apostles might have been miraculous healing of insanity. “But miraculous, nevertheless,” he said. As for the rise of witchcraft in the early centuries of the Christian era, he shook his head.
“I’ve mentioned Gnosticism,” he said. “It gives some commentators to argue that diabolism is really a very ancient religion, long in existence before Christianity; and it’s true that Gnosticism partakes of ancient Egyptian and Babylonian mysteries, with something of Brahmanism and classic Greek and Roman worship and even bits of the then newly established Christianity—altogether, Gnosticism was one of the most accommodating of beliefs. But let’s look into the evidence of what witchcraft really was. I say that it’s a grotesque and anarchic burlesque of Christian teaching and ritual.”
“No!” cried a woman’s voice, loud and shrill, and Father Bundren smiled broadly.
“Does someone disagree with me?” he asked cheerfully. “Who said no? Will the lady please stand up? Does she have special information and experience of witchcraft?”
He waited. Whoever had protested made no move.
“Then let me go on. A witch coven tries to have thirteen members—in derisive imitation of our Lord and his twelve disciples. Witches meet and conduct their masses, which are travesties of true masses. They have, for instance, a communion service, which to me seems fairly unappetizing. I won’t go into it here. And so on, and so on. Read about these blasphemous imitations in Kramer and Sprenger, in Guazzo, in Montague Summers, in Wickwar, all the demonologists.”
He elaborated, citing cases in both Europe and America, paying special attention to the Salem witchcraft trials. He spoke of enlightenment and tolerant viewpoint in recent times
. He read aloud the Act of 1735 by the English Parliament, which set aside the law of James I and abolished the death penalty for witchcraft.
“Execution for witchcraft in Britain had become unfashionable before that,’’ he observed. “The last witch to die there, up in Scotland, went to the gallows in 1772. On the Continent, a last German witch was executed for sorcery in 1775, about the time of the battle of Bunker Hill. And in Poland, a court sentenced two convicted witches to be burned to death in 1793. The English Parliament disallowed punishment for witchcraft in 1824, though being somewhat hard on fortune-tellers here and there. And today—”
He paused for effect.
“Today,’’ he said, “witchcraft or any other belief can be practiced, as long as it doesn’t transgress laws against things like murder and obtaining money under false pretense, anywhere in the United States. There are even national organizations of diabolists, that perform their ceremonies in public and have conventions and frequently get into the newspapers.” His eyes roamed over the audience. “I have reasons to think that such things occur here, in your town of Buford and on your university campus. I’ve had a person pointed out to me, a person of considerable renown and some performance in black magic. He’s probably present here among you.”
There was a stir in the air as heads turned. Yonder, across the auditorium where Thunstone sat with Sharon and Manco, was Rowley Thome.
“Let that sum up for me,” Father Bundren was saying. “God bless you all. Now, does someone have a question?”
The first to put up a hand and rise was recognizable as the man who called himself Exum Layton. His mouth quivered under his limp mustache. He asked Father Bundren if a devil worshiper was damned in the sight of Christians.
“Nobody is damned, if he honestly repents,” replied Father Bundren. “Next question.”
This came from a young woman, rising close to where Thunstone and his companions sat. She wore a red-striped blouse and blue jeans, both so snug that they showed every curve of her amply symmetrical figure. Her dark red hair was so tousled that it looked like fur.
“How do you reconcile your claim of liberalism with the traditional policy of your Catholic Church to imprison and torture and kill alleged witches?” she demanded.
“I attribute that to a recognition of realities,” replied Father Bundren. “My Church can change attitudes and policies, and has done so again and again. Once the Church authorities bullied Gallileo into denying that the earth moved around the sun; but today the Church agrees that nevertheless it does move. I could multiply instances here, but need I do that?”
“You confess to a confusion about justice and its employment.” That was Chancellor Pollock, rising in the very midst of the assembly.
“As I remember, I quoted Socrates to that effect,” replied Father Bundren, “What I do is recognize the sense of justice as influenced by this culture or that. Justice alone may vary in its sense, according to whether one thinks it can be carried out by death or imprisonment or other punishment, or otherwise by a verdict of not guilty. Let me suggest that along with a sense of justice should go a sense of fairness and a sense of mercy. Now, the lady there at the left.”
“Father,” said the woman, rising in her turn, “do you truly believe in exorcism of evil?”
“I believe in exorcism, and I have performed it several times,” was the reply.
“Can you site precedent? Actual exorcism?”
“There are lots of accounts,” said Father Bundren. “I suppose that the most familiar story of exorcism is about Jesus Christ at Gadara. It’s told very circumstantially in the gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke, and I feel like believing that it took place. A spectacularly crazy man lived among the tombs at Gadara. He wore no clothes, he broke chains with which he was bound, and he vexed and sometimes frightened the citizens. When Jesus asked his name, he said, ‘Legion; for we are many.’ If we go along with the explanation of psychologists for this poor fellow, we must say that he was schizophrenic in a highly complicated degree. The accounts go on to say that Jesus cast the devils out of him and into a nearby herd of swine, which charged at once off a high cliff and drowned in the water below. Whatever happened, the healing of the man was highly dramatic and successful.”
“But how can that story stand up?” persisted the questioner. “What about that big herd of swine? How do you explain it when an article of the Jewish faith is to abstain from eating pork?”
Again Father Bundren smiled. “A considerable body of theological research has established that Gadara was a community mostly of pagans, who would have eaten and relished pork, even as you and I. Next question?”
“Who is the person you mentioned?” yet another woman asked. “The one you describe as a performer of black magic?”
“I’ll have to be excused from answering that,” the priest said.
Others rose to ask questions, of varying degrees of rationality. Father Bundren answered these, and at last drew back from the lectern to allow Pitt to remind the audience once more of the dramatic presentation at eight o’clock. Then everyone rose to depart. Father Bundren left the stage and came along the aisle.
“I couldn’t pick out Shimada, either. I felt somewhat neglected by him. Why is he staying away?” He frowned at Thunstone and Manco.
“I can’t fathom the mystery of the Japanese mind,” offered Manco. “Perhaps he’s at the Inn.”
The party went out together, along the campus sidewalk and across the street to the Inn. Thunstone saw Sharon to her door, then put the key in his own lock. Entering the room, he shut the door behind him.
At once he saw a sooty black blur on the door’s off-white panel. His lips tightened, and he looked closer. The mark was in the form of a print of a broad left hand. Thunstone could see no lines of fingerprints.
He stepped quickly into the bathroom, soaked a washcloth with water, and brought it back. He scrubbed vigorously at the mark. The scrubbing had no perceptible effect.
He returned to drop the washcloth in the basin, then went to pick up his phone and ask to be connected with Father Bundren’s room. “Hello,” came the priest’s voice.
“This is John Thunstone, Father, in Room 312. Could you come and help me with something?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Thunstone waited. A tap at the door, and he let Father Bundren in. Father Bundren studied the mark on the door, bending close to examine it. Finally he straightened.
“Will you step out in the hall for a moment?” he asked, “Leave me alone with this?”
Thunstone went, pulled the door shut behind him, and stood outside. He heard a mutter in the room, but could not understand the words. At last the mutter ceased and Father Bundren opened the door. His face looked wan, with tense lines driven into it.
“Come in,” he said. “Things will be all right now, I think.”
Thunstone entered his room again and looked at the inside of the door. The blotch was gone from the pale paint. He could see no trace of it.
“Thank you, Father,” he said. “I called in the right man to help me. How did you manage?”
“With this.”
Father Bundren held out his open hand. Upon the palm lay what at first looked like a coin. But it was a medal, of silver so old that it looked leaden, and it was attached to a gold chain. Thunstone studied the thing. A cross was centered upon it, and around the cross were set letters, Roman capitals, seven groups of them, worn but six of them were readable.
Thunstone made them out:
CSPB OSSMI URS NSND SUQL IUB.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A medal of Saint Benedict,” replied Father Bundren. “He’s remembered as one of the greatest of exorcists. How old this particular medal is I can’t certainly say, but you can see for yourself that it is very old indeed. Do those letters mystify you? Each group is made up of the initials of the words of a powerful prayer.”
“It certainly banished that mark,” said Thunstone.
&nbs
p; “Yes, completely.” Father Bundren carefully stowed the medal in an inside pocket. “However that mark came here, or whatever it intended against you, it’s been defeated. And every evil that is defeated will give you greater strength to defeat others.”
He sounded weary and he still looked tense, pale. Thunstone went to pick up his brandy.
“Wouldn’t you like a drink?” he asked.
“Thanks, just now I’d be glad for one.”
Thunstone poured brandy into two glasses and handed one to Father Bundren. They sat and sipped.
“How fortunate that you had that medal with you just now,” said Thunstone.
At last Father Bundren smiled. “My son,” he said, “I always have it with me.”
VI
When Father Bundren had taken his leave, Thunstone went to his telephone again. His hand shook slightly as he picked it up. He grimaced at his own nervousness, and called the number of Sharon’s room.
“Yes,” said her soft voice.
“Listen, Sharon, will you come and have a drink with me?”
“A drink in your room, dear?” She seemed to laugh softly. “What if the house detective came, too? If this place has a house detective?”
“I’d let him come, and he could have a drink, too,” said Thunstone. “He might be glad for one. But I have something important to tell you. Give me two minutes to bring some ice and then come in.”
“As you say.”
He went out quickly and to the end of the hall and fetched back a plastic bin of cubes from the ice machine. Returning, he washed the glasses Father Bundren and he had used and poured modest drinks of brandy into both glasses and dropped in ice cubes. The door opened and Sharon came in, smiling.
“Why so conspiratorial?” she asked.
He gave her one of the glasses and they sat down, she in a chair, he on the bed. “You’ll need that drink when I tell you,” he said earnestly.
“Go ahead and tell me.”
He did so, describing the black hand mark that no longer showed on the inside of the door, describing what he had seen of Father Bundren’s actions in driving it away. Sharon drank brandy and went to examine the door.
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