Blood and Blasphemy

by Gerri R. Gray

  If the answer he found in Arecibo proved as unsatisfying, at least he would have one.

  At dusk, Seminario Evangelico resembled a fortress without the gun turrets. In its courtyard, Trainer stopped before the decaying statue of the Virgin. Sure enough the Holy Mother’s nose was badly chipped, almost gone. Trainer felt his mouth go dry.

  “Can I help you?” The voice, a woman’s, startled him. A painfully thin and badly shriveled nun stood behind him, the wind flapping her habit and making her appear an enormous bat.

  “I’ve come to see Father Bernabo, Sister. It’s a matter of some importance. My name is Trainer.”

  “Now is a rather odd hour to visit. Come back in the morn--”

  “Please.”

  “May I ask the nature of--?”

  “It’s somewhat private. Sister, please, I’ve come a long way.”

  She did not offer a smile. “He may still be at vespers. But come.”

  He followed her through the winding corridors of the seminary. Without speaking, footsteps echoing, he felt he had journeyed back to the 19th century. Inside the ancient structure, the lighting was poor and the heat absorbed by its rugged stone walls made the stagnant air feel even more oppressive. Entering the shadowy catacombs deep within, Trainer half expected the ugly little nun to hand him a flaming torch like some gnome from a gothic novel.

  The priest sat inside a cramped study behind a huge desk, a massive book—some ancient Bible, maybe—spread out before him. The man seemed as old as the seminary itself, his skin as ashen as its walls. When he saw Trainer, his mouth fell open. A much younger man in priest’s robes, probably a student in his twenties, sat in the corner. He looked up from his book but gave no reaction.

  “Father Bernabo, this man is Mr. Trainer, and he insists--”

  “I know who he is. Thank you, Sister Marguerite.” The nun left them.

  “You know me?”

  The priest revealed a thin slice of smile. “Even without the bow tie. Your mother was a very descriptive woman. She spoke of you often, told me you help others.”

  “You spoke to her?”

  “On the phone, yes. And, as you know, she gave us some money. From our previous conversation, I imagine that is what brings you here.”

  From behind his book, the young cleric looked at the two men. Perhaps this was more information than he was entitled to know. The priest asked him to leave. Trainer approached Bernabo’s desk as if the Channel 6 cameras were focused on him

  “Talk to me about the money.”

  The clergyman took a long drink from his water pitcher, eyes never leaving his visitor’s.

  “Your mother, she found us, not the other way around. She mentioned the name of Father Enríque D’Angiolini, who once taught here, claimed the late padre had spoken to her in a vision. She felt God’s presence was here in our seminary, felt it strongly. Many elderly people experience similar revelations. But your mother’s vision was very different, very specific about matters she could not possibly have known.”

  “Yes. And her vision cost three thousand dollars.”

  “She made the decision to offer her money as charity, yes. She felt it her duty to donate in Father D’Angiolini’s name for the knowledge he shared. But this knowledge never was intended for anyone outside of Seminario Evangelico. In your mother’s case, we had every intention of making an exception, and she wanted to make the trip here. But then came her unfortunate accident. I am sorry, Mr. Trainer, but more than that I cannot tell you.”

  “Then allow me to tell you something, Father Bernabo. I think my mother envisioned that God is here, all right. And I think you wanted her to believe this because it added three thousand dollars to your coffers! You wanted an old woman’s trust that you housed the Lord inside this stone labyrinth because she had some idiot experience she regarded as an epiphany! For all I know, her revelation and her knowledge of Father D’Angiolini could have been inspired by something she watched on CNN. And this ruin looks like it could use that money!”

  Bernabo got to his feet. His faced burned crimson, his hands balled into fists.

  “God is here, Mr. Trainer, just as He is everywhere. There is much you or I cannot begin to understand but must accept. Your mother’s money shall be returned to you. Now I must ask you to leave.”

  Trainer did not utter a wiseass rejoinder. Something inside did not want to believe this place harbored evil men, and he understood Seminario Evangelico had done its share of good works. But maybe that had been the priests’ selling point and this wouldn’t be history’s first instance of religious men gone bad. Trainer made no threats of consequences, but he promised himself there would be. When he returned to Arecibo, next time he would stop Father Bernabo in the street and ask him to smile for the camera.

  He found his way back to the courtyard. The cellular had no reception and he would need to locate a phone for a cab to San Juan. Standing again in the shadow of the Virgin’s statue, he was probably in for a long and dangerous walk through the hills and towards the city.

  A cold hand reached out from the darkness and touched his shoulder.

  “Señor...” It was the young cleric who had his nose in the book inside Bernabo’s study. “Señor Trainer, my name is Piétre. I did not mean to startle you, but I think you should come with me. I believe there is something here you will want to see.”

  “What I want to see right now is a cab.”

  The young man stammered. “I... I must confess... I listened at the door to your conversation with Father Bernabo, and I have heard talk of the old woman whose visions have sent you here. I am certain the priests would not want me to show you this, but I have pledged myself to the truth, and because you have asked, I must tell. I know you have questions.”

  “Only about a hundred of them, Piétre. My mother knew all about this place without ever seeing it. She claimed a dead priest spoke to her. I know God’s ways are mysterious, but is He so interested in saving one soul that He would go to all this trouble just to bring me here?”

  “You are here for a reason, Señor. Father D’Angiolini told your mother that reason. The dead often have a kinship with the living with whom something in common is shared. Their deaths, they were similar, no? We will go to the rear grounds. At this hour the padres will be taking their meals inside their chambers, so we must act now. Come.”

  The youth allowed no time for hesitation. Trainer followed him through the moonless dark, remaining close to the wall. It was near impossible to see anything. The smell assaulted him first. There was no mistaking that stench.

  “These are the donkey stables your mother described in her vision. Am I correct?”

  “She mentioned them. But she didn’t say they hadn’t been cleaned in the past six months.”

  “The donkeys are more practical for traveling the great hills surrounding El Seminario. And the children, they love to go for rides.”

  “Why are we here?”

  “Your mother, she spoke of God, had visions that Father D’Angiolini told her where to find Him? And so you have come here in search of some higher power because this is something you feel you must know? Because, despite your doubts, you truly want to believe He exists.”

  The acknowledgement sounded absurd when actually admitted, but saying it made him realize Piétre spoke the truth.

  “All right. Yes.”

  “Señor Trainer, your search ends here. For very many years, the priests of Arecibo have known of this. There are no others who do. But your beloved mother’s vision led you to us, and I believe our departed Padre D’Angiolini wanted you here so that you may learn the secret of El Seminario Evangelico for yourself. In America, you are a man of some power and influence? People respect you, listen to you?”

  “If you believe the Arbitron ratings. Do you have something you want me to sell?”

  Piétre clearly had no clue what that meant, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Come into the stables with me.”

  [... where
the donkeys are ...]

  “The stables? Why?”

  Piétre turned to him with a simple grin.

  “So you may learn the truth.”

  This young man in priest’s robes might be completely insane. Trainer considered hauling ass; fuck the darkness. But he had come for answers, no matter how asinine they seemed. He followed Piétre to the donkeys’ paddock. The youth closed the door behind them, reaching into his robe’s pouch to snap on a flashlight. Its beam was not very powerful because a brightly illuminated stable could deliver a dozen pissed off padres to the door.

  Ten donkeys stomped relentlessly inside their stalls. Flies buzzed everywhere, and several alighted on Trainer’s face. He swatted at them but they kept coming back four or five at a time.

  “Listen, I’m not real comfortable being in here. I’m a city mouse, you know.”

  “Shhhh...”

  If any of the donkeys started braying, Trainer decided he was out of there. He didn’t feel like explaining to Father Bernabo why he was there when he had no idea himself. The flashlight probed each corner of the paddock while a galaxy of flies danced in its beam. He felt his nausea build.

  “There!” the young cleric almost shouted, catching his error. Instead he pointed. Trainer’s eyes followed the sliver of light to a large dung heap alongside a fat donkey.

  “What? Where? I don’t see anything.”

  “There!”

  “I see only one huge pile of shit.”

  “Come closer, then. I will show you.”

  He aimed the light at an insect perched motionless on the dung heap, a fat horse fly, it appeared. Whatever it was, Trainer had never seen one so huge. Its size was almost the thickness of his thumb.

  “It’s a fly. That’s all I see.”

  The cleric grinned again, this time showing teeth.

  “Tell me, Señor. Do you notice any other flies upon that particular dung heap?”

  He didn’t. The lumpy mound was the largest in the stable, and there should have been a hundred flies buzzing around it. But he saw only this one, and it wasn’t even moving.

  “All right, Piétre. You’ve demonstrated that a fat fly is king of the hill. So?”

  “He is much more than that, Señor. So much more.”

  Trainer couldn’t help himself. The convulsion of laughter just happened.

  “This is a joke, right? You can’t be serious!!”

  The youth appeared more than earnest. The grin had disappeared. “The baby Jesus, he was born in a stable similar to this.”

  “Jesus was a man! And this stink hole is no manger!”

  “You asked to see God, Señor Trainer. I have brought you to Him.”

  Trainer inspected the insect closer. Its head was white like the insect screaming ‘Help me! Help me!’ in that 50’s Vincent Price movie. Otherwise it was a fat house fly, nothing more. The damned thing seemed embedded in the dung heap. Even as a cosmic punch line, this was more tragic than clever, a blasphemy worse than any atheist could conceive.

  “This... is God?”

  Piétre nodded.

  “And you know this, how?”

  “I am studying to become a priest. I know what is, and what is not. God’s truth is known to every padre, every sister of El Seminario.”

  “You pray to a fly? You worship a deity that lives on a pile of shit?”

  The insect stirred, wings flittering to life. It circled the two men, alighting on Trainer’s hand. The sensation surprised him. He felt an electric current pass through him, warm, almost soothing.

  [Mind over matter... ridiculous...]

  The stable door swung open. In silhouette among the night’s shadows stood Father Artur Bernabo.

  “Piétre! Piétre! What have you done?”

  Trainer managed composure amid the lunacy of the moment. He held out his hand, the fly still clinging to his fingertip. He inspected the fat insect as he spoke.

  “Don’t condemn the boy, Father. He did only what he believed was right. Even if I believed Piétre here, anyone I might tell would laugh himself sick and have me committed to the cracker factory. I’ll consider this experience a joke in very bad taste, and we’ll all forget it ever happened. Okay?”

  Bernabo approached slowly.

  “Some believe God is in a flower, Mr. Trainer. Others believe he is in the wind, the rain, or the Earth itself. What matters is what simply is. God is real, just as the creature you are holding now is real.” He held out his hand, reaching for the insect. “Please. Gently. Gently.”

  “Father Bernabo, you’re telling me you also believe this fly is... ”

  “He is.”

  Trainer pulled his hand away. The fly settled inside his palm.

  “I don’t think so, Father. Whatever metaphysical dung heap you’re selling, this buyer is aware!” In one rapid motion he slammed his hands together, heard the micro-fart of ruptured innards explode as the fly burst open like a bloody jellybean. Studying the thick paste dripping down his wrist, Trainer offered his open palms like stigmata. Father Bernabo and Piétre inspected the goo that remained. “Tell me, gentlemen. Does this qualify as a crucifixion? Do you think maybe he’ll be resurrected as a cockroach?”

  The two priests stood frozen in place, mouths open. Neither spoke as Trainer wiped the fly’s remains against a handkerchief, tossing it behind him.

  “There are about a thousand other Gods buzzing around in here. I’m sure you’ll find some other Lord of the Flies to carry on. And when you’re done grieving, I’d appreciate it if one of you would call me a cab. I’ll be outside. No offense, but this place really stinks.”

  He walked into the darkness, filling his lungs with the fresh air. It was hot, but still better than the reek of that damned stable. The night felt extremely humid and he was sweating badly, but this was Puerto Rico. Here it was always hot.

  “Lunatics. All of them,” he muttered.

  Something felt strange, something was not right. His feet were unsteady, as if the ground had shifted. And something else.

  Earlier there had been no moon, not so much as a pale sliver to light his way. Now there shone a full moon illuminating everything around him. It seemed very large.

  Trainer shielded his eyes.

  A lunar eclipse maybe?

  [not right, not right.]

  He looked again. It wasn’t the moon he saw. This was a thousand watt Klieg light filling the night sky with fire.

  “GOD IS NOT A FLY!”

  No, not the moon...

  It was the sun!

  And it was coming straight at him.

  THE END

  FINDING CHRIST

  By Trevor Newton

  “Walter, we’ve got Janet on line three. She’s distraught about all the recent attacks in the news and says she’s beginning to question God.”

  Walter looked at Karen through the glass and rolled his eyes before turning off the cough button.

  “Janet, sweetheart, what’s this nonsense about questioning God? Faith is the entire groundwork of our belief system, is it not?”

  The woman on the other end was sobbing and struggling to answer the question. Walter allowed her to regain her composure, using the downtime to tap out a Pall Mall Non-Filter and light it. The passage on his lighter caught his attention: Do not despise prophecies, but test everything; hold fast what is good. (1 Thessalonians 5:20,21)

  “Yes, but all these attacks in the news… I can’t help but think that God has simply abandoned us, given up and thrown in the towel.”

  “Janet, sweetheart-”

  “Two-hundred and sixteen dead after the mass shooting at that azalea festival in Wilmington, North Carolina. Almost another hundred at the high school bombing in Burbank, California, and that’s only one of twelve school attacks in the past week. Nearly a thousand, Walter—a thousand—dead after the terrorist attack in Salt Lake City. The perpetrators of the terrorist attack were all local youth ministers and regarded as upstanding citizens. I just don’t see how any God could
let all this happen.”

  Walter took a long drag off the cigarette. It was getting short enough to start burning his lips, so he stubbed it out in the ashtray. “Janet, I want to be clear with you: I understand your frustrations. When these unexplainable atrocities occur, there’s rarely any one person to blame. So, amidst our fear and confusion, we turn to God. Sometimes for comfort and guidance, and other times for someone to blame and hurl accusations at. The Lord knows I’ve made the same mistake many times. But, you’re a fairly regular caller, aren’t you, Janet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought so. You see, I don’t claim to be a genius of any sort. Got pretty average grades throughout high school; same deal when it came to college. But, one thing I do wield is a pretty darn good memory. I can tell you what I had for breakfast exactly three weeks ago: scrambled eggs and sourdough toast.

  “You can name a year and I’ll tell you who won the NBA championship that year and, just to impress you, I can name the coach, too. 1973: New York Knicks take it in Game 5 with Red Holzman coaching. 1980: Los Angeles Lakers take it in Game 6, winning their first championship in eight years with Paul Westhead coaching. 2005: San Antonio Spurs take it in Game 7 with Gregg Popovich coaching.

  “And about two years ago, sometime in mid-June of 2017, you called into my radio show even more hysterical than you are right now. Your son, Timmy or Tommy—or something along those lines—had a brain tumor. I remember how it was oddly cold that morning, but God blessed us with full sunshine around noon. Between your bawling and howling, I could hardly understand what it was you were trying to convey, but when I figured it out, I prayed with you over the phone. I even wrote down the address to your church and drove nearly two hours to attend Sunday service with a bunch of folks I didn’t know from a hole in the wall. I prayed with you there, too. And, if my memory serves me correct, and it usually does, you called back in sometime in August and said your little boy was cancer-free. A miracle, a true act of God.