On the Third Day (6 page)

            The chanting voices fell to a soft murmur at his intrusion, and then to silence.  He stood very still, poised between steps, as if he were a young boy again, playing “Freeze” with the other children on the block, fighting not to be the next to move.  He sensed that he had broken some taboo, but he didn’t know what he could do to reverse his actions.

            It was too late to retreat.  He took another step, stretched out his hand toward Father Prescott’s back, and stopped.  Father Prescott either did not notice him, or ignored him.  The priest dropped to his knees before the wooden cross.

            As Father Morrigan stood transfixed by the stares of the natives, silent and still, the first drops of blood splattered across the back of Father Prescott’s robe.  Father Morrigan stared as the dark, viscous liquid soaked into the cloth and spread in a growing stain. His lips parted, but no sound escaped, and at that moment, Father Prescott began to pray.

            His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke the words in Latin, clearly and with passion.  The syllables rolled rhythmically from his lips, and Father Morrigan found himself mouthing them in unison, though he could not tear his gaze from Father Prescott’s robes.

            He held his hand out again, palm up.  Blood splashed across the bare skin, ran down his wrist and beneath his sleeve.  He jerked the hand back and stumbled forward a step.  Without thinking he raised his face to the clouds, trying to see, to understand, but the blood dripped freely now, splattering his face and stinging his eyes.  It plastered his hair to his head and ran down his cheeks in long, slick rivulets.  Moving with dreamy slowness, he turned his gaze back to Father Prescott.

            The priest’s arms were raised in an expression of adulation.  His voice had risen steadily in volume until it rang through the clearing, running counterpoint to the patter of the rain of blood that spattered his face, his arms, the cross and the clearing. 

            The gathered natives, trapped in the moment, dropped their heads to the ground, arms outstretched as they continued to chant.  At the entrance to the clearing, Father Gonzalez dropped to his knees.  He lowered his head and joined his gruff, cracked voice to Father Prescott’s.

            Brian Morrigan stood like a statue, one arm outstretched and running with blood.  His mouth worked, but no sound emerged; for the second time that day, the world whirled about him.  He turned away from Father Prescott’s blood soaked form and swept his gaze in a long, slow motion arc across the prone figures of the natives, their hair spattered with the blood that drenched him, their voices sonorous and powerful.

            He turned back the way he’d come and saw Father Gonzalez kneeling by the path.  The old priest did not look up; none of them looked up.  To them, he might as well not have existed.

            Brian latched onto the image of Father Gonzalez, who prayed alone and separate from the madness, far enough back from the clearing to be free of the blood.  Brian swept one arm around to beseech the old priest.  Father Gonzalez didn’t see him; he saw only the ground between his knees and he was lost in the prayer and the patter of spilling blood.  Brian couldn’t call out or beg for his help, because his voice wouldn’t function, and if it had, it would not have been loud enough.

            The chant echoed through Father Morrigan’s mind.  The sound reverberated off the inside of his skull and crashed like discordant symbols.  He heard the native’s voices.  He heard Father Prescott and Father Gonzalez, but he couldn’t lock his mind onto their words.  What he heard was garbled and too slow, like a tape player with one wheel binding and stretching the tape, or a 78rpm record played at 33 1/3. 

           He spun in a slow circle, seeing first the cross, and Father Prescott, and then the pathway leading back the way he’d come.  He intended to take that path and leave the clearing behind, but his body was stuck in the same odd time-slip as the voices surrounding him.  As he turned, his legs tangled.  The world gave a sickening lurch, and as he kicked wildly to free himself, he spun face up into the sun, and the blood.  He closed his eyes.  The words of the prayer pounded to the rhythm of the blood pulsing too hot and too fast through his temples, and he fell back into a well of darkness.

~ Eight ~

            Father Morrigan’s eyes fluttered open, but he didn’t move.  Not at first.  The light was dim; the flicker of an oil lamp winked at him from across the room.  That was the first thing his brain processed.  He was in a room.  He had no idea where.  As his senses returned, slowly, he realized he was lying on a cot with a pillow beneath his head.

            From the corner he heard the soft whirr of an oscillating fan.  The cool air blew across his skin, then moved on, then came back, and for a few minutes he was content to concentrate on that sensation.  His head ached, and he feared the first motion.  It was going to hurt like hell.

            He took a deep breath and turned his head slowly to the side.  Not as bad as he’d expected, and when he moved, he heard the brush of fabric.  He saw that someone was seated beside the bed, and seconds later he realized that it was Father Prescott.

            The older priest leaned back in a straight-backed wooden chair and regarded Father Morrigan quietly.  When Brian stirred, Father Prescott rose from his seat, walked across the room to where a pitcher of water rested on a rough-cut wooden table, and poured a small glass.  He returned to the bed and took his seat once more.

            Father Morrigan pushed himself to a sitting position, but the motion was too sudden, and he fell back with a moan.  His vision swam, and the darkness rose up, threatening to consume him once more.  He laid his arm across his eyes and took several long, deep breaths.

            When he opened his eyes again, Father Prescott offered him the glass of water.  This time, Father Morrigan sat up more slowly and leaned against the bed’s heavy wooden headboard.  He took the glass gratefully, sipped the water, and then gulped it as he finally registered the parched condition of his tongue and the cracking, dry skin on his lips.

            When the glass was empty, he handed it back slowly, and closed his eyes.  The full memory of what had happened in the clearing – up to a point -- swept over him like a tide, and he turned, too quickly this time, to stare into Father Prescott’s eyes.

            “What happened out there?” he asked.

            “You fainted,” Father Prescott replied, his eyes dancing.

            “You know what I mean,” Father Morrigan snapped, instantly regretting the hard shake of his head and the tone of his voice.  Technically, Father Prescott was his superior – though they worked in different divisions of the same department. 

            “The blood – that blood.  It was everywhere.  I . . .”

            Father Prescott watched the younger priest calmly as he sputtered, lost the words he’d intended to speak, and covered that loss by attempting to sip from the empty water glass in his hand.  Finally, Father Prescott spoke.

            “I don’t know what happened, Brian,” he said.  “That’s why I’m here, you know, to find out?  I wouldn’t have had you come on us like that without warning, but to be honest, I didn’t even know you were there.  I got the wire saying you were inbound, but I didn’t expect you for hours.”

            Brian eased back against the headboard, sipped his water, and stared at the wall across from him.  His eyes had taken on a faraway, glazed expression.

            “Brian,” Father Prescott said, “why
are
you here?  I got the wire, but I’ll be honest.  I find it hard to believe that after all of these years, Rome doesn’t trust my judgment.  And there are others in the department, seasoned to such situations . . . ”

            Father Prescott’s voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

            Brian’s eyes refocused and opened wide in sudden alarm. 

            “Oh,” he said, “It’s nothing like that.  Nothing like that at all. I…”

            Father Prescott watched Brian silently, lifting one eyebrow, but saying nothing.  He was obviously amused at the younger priest’s embarrassment, and in no hurry to relieve it.  Father Morrigan squirmed and held out the water glass.  Father Prescott refilled it and handed it back in silence.

            “It’s a new assignment,” Father Morrigan burst out at last.  “Top priority.  This one comes straight from Cardinal O’Brien.”

            Father Prescott’s smile faded.  He was not ready for a new assignment.  He had to find answers here – now.  His mind drifted, just for a moment, to the clearing, and the soft, warm spatter of blood across his face.  He saw their eyes, all those dark eyes, watching him – and waiting.

            “He said you wouldn’t want to come,” Father Morrigan went on, seeing the shift in his companion’s features.  “He told me this was important, and that I was to give you something.”

            Father Prescott remained silent, waiting.  He had a lot to say, but he knew that these rooms, and this young priest, were the wrong targets for his words.  It would do no good to shoot the messenger, and what he wanted more than anything at that moment was for this meeting to be done so that he could find a telephone and rant at the man behind the message in a more personal manner.

            Father Morrigan glanced around and nearly spilled his water trying to peer over the edge of the bed and into the corners of the room.  He blushed again, and Father Prescott placed a hand on the younger man’s arm to calm him.

            Father Morrigan met his gaze gratefully, and then asked, “Do you have my things?  My briefcase?”

            Father Prescott leaned down.  The duffle bag and the briefcase both rested against the foot of the bed, out of Father Morrigan’s sight.  Father Prescott lifted the leather case and placed it gently across Father Morrigan’s lap.

            Still flustered, and more than a little weak and dizzy, Brian fumbled open the clasps and lifted the lid.  He rummaged around inside for a few moments, pulling out files and pushing things aside, one by one, until he drew forth a long, slender chain.  From the bottom, a leather pouch dangled.  He turned, holding this up to Father Prescott with a trembling hand.

            “He said that I should give you this,” the young priest said.  “He said that you’d understand.”

            Father Prescott caught sight of the pouch, and he froze.  His features went momentarily slack, and he slumped back heavily in his chair. 

            Father Morrigan saw the reaction the object in his hand had caused and leaned forward in alarm

            “What is it?” he asked.  “What’s wrong?”

            Father Prescott didn’t hear him.  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, as memories shifted up from the depths to cloud the moment.  They were so clear that he could smell the polished wood and rich leather of Cardinal O’Brien’s office.

            Across the desk, Cardinal O’Brien sat, holding the slender chain, the pouch dangling from it and spinning in a lazy circle over the heavy blotter.  Father Prescott watched, mesmerized.  He reached out a hand and gently stroked the soft pouch in wonder.

            “What is it?” he asked?

            “This,” Cardinal O’Brien answered, “Don, is the one thing I’ve never been able to explain.  This is the one miracle, in all my time in the Church that I cannot say – is
not
.  Rather, this is a reminder of that miracle.  I keep it close to me, and when there are moments of doubt, I hold it – and I dream about it.”

            Father Prescott held the pouch in his hand gently, entranced.  He wanted to open it, but to do so without O’Brien’s bidding was unthinkable.

            “What is it?” he repeated.

            “One day,” O’Brien replied, “perhaps you will answer that question for me.  One day after you have found your own miracles.”

            The Cardinal withdrew the chain, slipped the pouch into the folds of his vestments, and reached out with his free hand.  He tapped Father Darren Prescott directly over his heart, and said.

            “When you have found your own miracles, and resolved them . . . here.”

            The memory dissolved. Father Prescott shook his head and sat up straight.  The small room in the middle of the Peruvian jungle, and Father Morrigan’s confused, concerned face, slid back into focus.

            Father Prescott reached out and stroked the pouch.  He cupped his hand and Father Morrigan dropped the bag into it, letting the chain pour over Donovan’s fingers like cool liquid.  Those fingers were white with tension where he touched the bag; though he held it so tenderly it might have been a delicate eggshell.  His hand trembled.

            As the last of the chain slipped through his fingers, Father Morrigan spoke softly. 

            “You have to go to California.”

            Father Prescott didn’t meet the younger priest’s gaze, but he nodded.  He rose slowly from his chair.  He stared at the leather pouch for a long time in silence, and then he turned to Father Morrigan.

            “We’ll fly out tomorrow.”

            Father Prescott stood then, and stepped around the bed.  Without another word he slipped out the door, leaving Father Morrigan to the silence, and his confusion.

~ Nine ~

            The early morning sun rose slowly, winding its way in rose-fingers among the vines and foliage and glistening through heavy drops of dew.  The old wooden cross stood in shadow, dark and stark against the green grass of the field.  It had rained overnight, as Father Morrigan had been told it rained nearly every night, and the grass glistened; all sign of what had transpired the previous day had disappeared.  The silence lent an air of unreality to the moment and the young priest feared to break it.

            Father Prescott and Father Gonzalez stood, side-by-side, a few feet closer to the cross.  Brian didn’t want to intrude, but he was close enough to hear the words they spoke, and was grateful for the inclusion.  There were none of the longhaired, dark-skinned parishioners present, but there was a hum of – something – in the air, something that reminded Father Morrigan of the chanting voices, and the dark, staring eyes; something that reminded him of the rain-patter of blood and Father Prescott’s voice speaking the ancient Latin prayers.  Somehow he knew that they were out there, or some of them were, and that nothing transpired in this clearing without their knowledge.