On the Third Day (4 page)

            He had wanted it to be over, but in the perverse manner of the world, his actions only served to make the morning drag on and on, until he was finally able to summon his driver and get the equipment safely stowed in the trunk.  It wasn’t a long drive to San Marcos, about twenty-five minutes with minimal traffic, and he hadn’t wanted to arrive too soon.

            That part of the morning, at least, had worked out for him.  He’d arrived just as the last of the congregation filed through the huge wooden doors, and he had managed to use some of the bustle and murmur of last minute seating and whispered conversation to slip in and up the stairs.

            It wasn’t as if these people didn’t know him.  Until Father Thomas had been assigned, and the Bishop had moved to his newer, more spacious offices in San Valencez, he had performed the Mass here himself, at least every other Sunday.  He had taken their confessions, and he knew a great number of them by name, though he never would have stopped to speak to them without good cause.  That was the service of the priests.  His own communion was of a higher order, closer to God – or so he liked to believe. 

            The truth was, Bishop Michaels was not good with strangers, and though he performed well in public, his talent rose more out of an ability to withdraw into himself and make the Mass personal than from actual performance skill.  While Father Thomas had felt the call of the priesthood, the people and the responsibility, Tony Michaels had dreamed of splendor.  He had seen himself in the grand robes of a Bishop, or even a Cardinal, and he dreamed of standing before huge stained glass windows in brilliant beams of holy light, communing with a very private God.

            Bishop Michaels found Mass to be a beautiful thing.  After decades of hearing the words spoken, mouthing them along with the priests, and speaking them himself, he still felt a glow of warmth each time the first syllables rolled out.  He still felt a small thrill of pride at understanding those words, the ancient tongue as familiar to him as the modern English he spoke on a day to day basis, and the responses, the sharing of one man’s voice with those of so many others, all in praise of a shared joy – it was sometimes more than he could stand without tears. 

            That is how it had always been.  This morning, it was different.  While the words were the same, and the man standing at the altar of God wore the vestments of a priest, Bishop Michaels’ expression was one of cold contemplation.  He masked it with an icy, aloof smile, but there was no mirth or good intent in his gaze.  He reflected that this was another thing Father Quentin Thomas owed him, along with some lengthy and very detailed explanations.  He was owed this morning, and this Mass – the glory of it was slipping away as he was relegated to the mundane duty of cameraman for a charlatan.

            That he’d been forced to come here, like a parent reigning in a recalcitrant child; that he’d been made to look the part of evil while the man below was held a man of God; that the Church itself would not be content to chastise Father Thomas and ship him off to some remote, quiet place where his theatrics would find no audience to influence and impress – these things made the Bishop’s guts roil with indignation.

            There was a certain order to things, the Mass included, and one did not deviate from that order without consequence.  That miracles had been performed in the days of Jesus of Nazareth the Bishop accepted readily – that they invaded this small cathedral on Easter Sunday and sent the congregation screaming from the building in disbelief, fear, and alarm?  This was not acceptable.

            So he sat and trained his camera on the man bent on shattering these comfortable beliefs, and he waited.  Bishop Michaels did not doubt that when it was all over, one of two things would happen, either of which would begin the process of setting things right and returning his life to the order he craved.

            The first thing that might happen was absolutely nothing.  If Father Thomas was too afraid to try playing his parlor tricks under the scrutiny of the camera, or if the incident had been an isolated one – then Mass would proceed as it always did on Easter Sunday, and in a few hours the Bishop would return home with a tape of a charismatic young priest performing the Mass.

            The second possibility, the one he secretly hoped for, gave him more of an active roll in how things would play out.  If Father Thomas underestimated his superiors in Mother Church, he might try his foolishness again.  He might have some manner of starting trickles of what would appear to be blood on his wrists, or his forehead, and if he tried something like that, the Bishop would be ready. 

            There was no doubt in Michaels’s mind that what had happened the previous Easter, if anything, in fact, had actually happened at all, had been a carefully enacted charade.  He was equally certain of his own ability to sort out anything out of the ordinary and put it right.  It was part of what he’d been trained to do.

So here he sat, serene on the exterior and seething on the inside.  The camera whirred softly, its single cyclopean eye trained on Father Thomas as the Mass began.

~ Four ~

            The morning air hung heavy, damp, and stagnant.  The tiny airfield, surrounded on all sides by the dense, Peruvian jungle, winked and glittered as the rising sun slipped through overhanging branches and glistened down the dew-wet vines creeping out toward the runways.  The clouds were sparse, though rain threatened several miles off.  There was little movement.

             A distant hum intruded, too regular for the voice of an insect, and then the sleek bright nose of a jet pierced the threatening storm.  The aircraft banked over the jungle and glided down toward the airfield like a great, silver predatory bird.  The hum rose steadily to a droning roar, and finally, sluggishly and reluctantly, the airfield came to life.

            The jet glittered with polished elegance.  Small symbols had been carefully painted onto the tail and wings, and again near the nose.  Discreetly rendered, at first it was impossible to make them out.  Then, as the great bird touched down gently and the engines throttled back, those symbols came into sharp focus in the growing sunlight:  A small black cross, and a yellow and white flag with crossed keys – the flag of the State of Vatican City.  The gold key on the right symbolized the power of the heavens.  On the left, the silver key symbolized the Papal authority on the earth.  The symbol was muted and vague in the shadow, as if trying to obscure itself, or hide from the brilliant sunlight.

            As the jet taxied down a runway that seemed to be too short to allow it room to stop, members of the ground crew scurried out of Quonset hut hangars.   Bright yellow equipment rolled into position, and a small red fire engine, hardly more than a chrome tank of foam on a truck frame, rolled toward the near end of the runway.  Its driver stepped down from his seat and mopped the perspiration from his brow as he eyed the approaching aircraft.  He scanned the length of it and frowned.

            The jet rolled to a stop, lights still blinking, and the engines throttled back to a throaty idle, then a whine, and finally, silence.  Dark-skinned men in khaki shorts and shirts hurried to roll a rickety metal access ladder into place at the aircraft’s side. 

            Back near the main office, a low-slung building tucked up into the shade of the jungle, a jeep started roughly.  The driver wore his hair very long and tied in back.  He had a dark complexion, even for Peru, and piercing eyes that glittered in the sunlight.  He popped his vehicle into gear and rolled slowly across the airfield toward the waiting jet.

            A hatch opened in the jet’s side, and a moment later, a man stepped onto the platform at the top.  He was tall and slender with reddish brown hair so disheveled it looked as though instead of brushing it, he might have gripped it tightly in his fist when it was wet, twisted, and just let it go.  A pair of thick, black-framed glasses rested a little lower on the bridge of his nose than they should have.  He pushed them up and into position with the tip of his index finger and glanced about the airfield nervously.

            Father Brian Morrigan was used to the airports of Europe and the United States.  The eerie silence, or, rather the unfamiliar voice of the jungle, caused him a momentary shiver.  It was like nothing he’d ever heard, or experienced, and the sight of it was beyond the scope of his imagination. The overall effect was bewildering.  Behind him, the co-pilot stepped up impatiently.

            The priest glanced over his shoulder, saw that he was holding up the others waiting to debark, and started down the steps.  He held the safety rail with one hand and in the other he gripped the handle of a briefcase so tightly the blood fled his fingers.  Sweat beaded instantly under his clothing; the bright, white collar seemed to shrink and grip his throat.

            He heard a rushing, throbbing hum, which he assumed was insects.  Then his mind caught up with the moment, and he realized that his sudden motion, and the onslaught of heat, had pushed him near to vertigo.  The hum was the rush of blood to his head, and his surroundings took on a halo-glow, shimmering languidly.  He managed to make it to the bottom of the stairs, stopped, and bent over.  His briefcase dropped to the ground, and he squatted, letting his head fall forward into his hands and fighting for balance.  The air was thick, and he gasped for air. 

            Hands gripped his shoulders, and voices floated around him, though he could make no sense of them.  He tried to shrug them off and push away, but he had no strength for it.  Moments later his head cleared, and he took a long, shuddering breath.  The words snapped into sudden focus and the world receded, seeming smaller somehow.

            “Father, are you all right?”

            It was the co-pilot speaking, a short, squat man in a dark blue uniform.  The man looked genuinely concerned, and it almost allowed Father Morrigan to forgive the man’s impatience at the top of the stairway.

            “I . . . “ he said, hesitated, then continued.  “I’ll be fine.  It’s just the heat – I’m not used to it.”

            The man watched him.  It was hot, but not that hot.  None of them were used to it.  He was clearly uncertain what his next course of action should be.  Behind them the pilot was disembarking, and several others had gathered, their eyes filled with concern that was clearly not directed at Father Morrigan, but at how his near fainting spell might inconvenience them.  

            “Really,” the priest said, straightening slowly, “I’ll be fine.”

            Just then the Jeep that had left the main gate moments before pulled up a few yards away.  They all turned to watch the dark-haired driver climb out of his seat and step forward.

            “Father Morrigan?” the man asked. 

            Grateful for the interruption, Morrigan stepped toward the man, his hand outstretched.  “I’m Father Morrigan,” he said.

            “Father Gonzalez sent me to drive for you,” the man said.  His face never changed expression, but there was something in his eyes as they flickered over Father Morrigan’s gaunt features that made the priest uneasy.

            “You have bags?” the man asked.  It was more of a prompt than a question, and Father Morrigan turned.  They were just unloading the jet’s cargo hold onto a rolling yellow cart, and he nodded.

            “The green duffel bag,” he said. 

            Turning, Father Morrigan retrieved his heavy briefcase from the tarmac and brushed the palm of his hand ineffectually across the new scuffs and soiling where he’d dropped it.

            He spun back to ask the driver’s name, but the man had already retrieved the duffle bag and was tossing it into the back of the Jeep.  Without another word, the driver climbed in and waited.

            Father Morrigan blinked, ran his hand back through his already impossibly unruly hair, and shrugged.  Holding tightly to the briefcase, he walked to the Jeep and climbed aboard.

            Before he could speak, the driver pulled away from the jet, scattering the small crew and few passengers in all directions as he turned the nose of the vehicle toward the gates and the jungle road beyond.

~ Five ~

            Father Morrigan was thrown back into his seat when the Jeep took off, and the driver showed no signs of letting up as they hurtled out through the gate and onto the packed dirt road.  Dust rose like a cloud at their passing, quickly obscuring the airfield from sight.

            Brian wished he’d had a second to coordinate with the pilot and the crew.  He knew that arrangements had been made to put them up for as long as he needed them, but he’d have felt better knowing the exact details.  Father Brian Morrigan liked order. 

            Within moments the semi-civilized buildings and low-slung Quonset huts had given way to huge, towering trees alive with life.  Birds flew from the brush in great fluttering bursts of color and sound as they passed.  Father Morrigan kept his eyes straight ahead and held the briefcase tightly against his chest, wrapped in his arms.    Once or twice he noticed flitting shadows to one side of the road or the other, but he ignored them as best he could.

            The driver remained silent.  His gaze was fixed on the road ahead, and Father Morrigan guessed from the tightness of the man’s grip on the wheel that it was taking all of his concentration to keep the speeding vehicle under control.  That wasn’t all of it, though.  Father Morrigan remembered the fleeting glimpse of something in the man’s eyes – something dark and not quite pleasant.

            It gave him a few moments to brace for what was to come and to wonder for the thousandth time why he’d been sent here.  Anyone could have borne this message, and though the materials in his briefcase had come from the library, they would have packed well into a Federal Express crate.  A telegram could have carried the words – and the rest? 

            Brian missed the sterile silence of the stacks in the deep libraries of the Vatican.  He missed the quiet of his small office, the scent of the pipes and tobacco he kept in the corner, not to smoke, but just to remind him of his past.  His father had smoked a pipe.  The old man’s flannel shirts carried the scents of Old Spice and Borkum Riff tobacco.  It was comfortable, and familiar.