Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02 (9 page)

 
          
“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.