by Adam Grinter
“How long have we got?” I asked.
“Half an hour.”
No chance.
We would need a miracle.
All we had to go on was a date, conveniently printed in the top right hand corner of our only lead, the newspaper cutting. We scanned boxes which all had a range of dates written on the outside. They were almost in date order. The old man had kept this record room tidy and logical so it didn’t take us long to find the box we needed. I grabbed it off the shelf and almost threw the lid off it in my haste to find the information we needed.
Inside the box was full of files, each one had a tab with a name written on it containing the medical reports for what they’d come into the hospital for, the treatment they’d received and their discharge papers. I allowed Maria to rummage through the box to find the one we needed. She was able to decipher the writings far better than I was.
I stood at the door keeping an eye out for uninvited visitors. The records keeper had walked away to allow us access. Not everyone would be as accommodating. Blurry shapes passed by the outer door, the glass panel highlighting life passing by. Any of these shapes could discover us at any moment.
Time slowed as Maria searched. I silently urged her to hurry, discovery was always seconds away. She pulled a file out with a flourish and announced, “got him.”
I closed the box and put it back where it belonged. We exited the back room with the file secreted under Maria’s light jacket. We hurried along the corridor heading back to the car.
Our search had taken us about twenty-five minutes. I hoped all of this adventure was going to go as smoothly as that.
#
We drove to a nearby cafe, parked up, entered, ordered some cold drinks and took them outside to the tables that overlooked the dusty road.
I let Maria scan the file. As detectives we had read numerous reports, both medical and criminal. I waited for her to translate for me. She took her time and she flicked back to the beginning again, reading it through a second time.
She chose her words deliberately when she eventually spoke.
“There was nothing wrong with him.” She said.
“There had to be.” I replied. “The article says he suffered a near fatal stroke.”
“The hospital ran all normal tests for three days and then release him.”
“They must have found something, anything.” I countered.
“All tests were negative, he was in perfect health. They find no sign of stroke, no sign of heart attack. No sign of anything wrong at all.”
“So, what happened to him in the church?” I asked reasonably.
“I don’t know.” Maria responded. “But now we find out.”
#
We loaded ourselves back into the car ready for the last leg of our journey. Our final destination was about forty-minutes away but the time couldn’t pass quickly enough. We were both eager to meet the priest and hopefully get to the bottom of this mystery.
As we approached the village the spire of the church dominated the skyline in front of us. It rose up as we crested a hill on the approach. Looming large over the village, physically and metaphorically as we drove down the empty approach road.
All the streets were deserted in the midday-heat and we looked around for somewhere to ask for directions to the priest’s house.
There was a restaurant on the right hand side of the road so we pulled to a stop in front of it. Maria leapt out, leaving the engine running so the air-conditioning would keep me cool inside the car.
Moments later she jumped back into the cool car and set off again.
“He lives round corner in house with blue door.” She told me.
She took the turn and we crept down the road very slowly with her eyes on one side and mine on the other. Both of us looking for the blue door. Halfway down the road I saw it and we pulled to a stop in the empty space in front of it. We got out of the car. Although both us us were eager to meet this man, we seemed nervous. Our movements were dulled, muted, neither of us wanting to take the lead and make a false step.
I broke through my lethargy and approached the door. I raised my hand to knock on the hard wood. Before my hand connected to announce our presence the door swung open and there stood an old man. He wore light clothing and had an unruly mop of grey hair on his head. The smile on his face and the twinkle in his eyes, betrayed the fact he’d enjoyed my momentary look of confusion at having answered the door before I’d had the chance to knock.
I opened my mouth to speak, although not sure he would understand. He beat me to that as well.
“Come in, come in, I have expected you.”
1 Chronicles
He was alone but he wasn’t lonely.
He had never known his real Mother but She was with him always. She watched out for him. She accompanied him everywhere. He took Her everywhere with him.
She spoke to him, She encouraged him, She instructed him.
Although he was only five years-old he had learnt already he couldn’t return Her conversation.
In his last foster home they had been nice to him. They’d said he was part of the family. The mother and father had looked after him. They took him places, they had bought him treats, he had felt safe. They took him to church on Sunday. Then they had changed.
He’d been talking to his real Mum, quietly, in bed. Telling Her about his day. She’d laughed at one of his stories and he’d laughed along as well. The mother came in and asked who he was talking to. He was four, he didn’t understand the ramifications of telling the truth so he told her.
Over the following days the mother caught him talking to his real Mum on a couple of occasions until one day she asked him if he saw Her when he spoke to Her. He told her She only spoke to him in his head and he had never seen Her.
Over the following weeks the mother had seemed strange and he’d caught her looking at him strangely when she thought he wasn’t watching. His real Mother warned him he needed to stop answering Her because people would think him weird. He didn’t understand, he loved his Mother, he knew She loved him. The conversations continued.
One day the mother and father told him they were going on a trip so they all got in the car, they strapped in his car seat in the back and they sat up front. They took him back to the place he’d come from, the children’s home. They left him there.
That night his real Mother talked to him and told him he mustn’t talk to Her as people wouldn’t understand. He’d cried, not understanding. His Mother had told him She knew what he was thinking and so he just had to think things and She would know. This calmed him and so he didn’t talk to Her any more. He thought to Her.
The children’s home was busy with children, there always seemed to be new people to see and try to talk to. However hard he tried, and he always tried. He struggled to connect with the children. They always started out alright but very quickly the children would leave him and find other things to do. Some were mean when they left with their comments of “you’re weird” or “I don’t want to play with you”. Others just walked away and never came back to finish their games.
One by one the children left him and played amongst themselves. Always excluding him, always ignoring him.
His Mother was still there for him and She told him not to worry, She said he was Her special boy and She loved him so much. He loved Her too, he thought back.
It was a Friday afternoon and the children were playing in the yard of the home. They had all been to school and nursery and so were tired but rowdy in the way young children could be. He walked around the edge of the garden with a smile on his face. The other children were kicking footballs, digging in the sand and playing on the climbing frame.
He saw Isaac at the top of the frame and heard his Mum say ‘go to him, help him’. He knew better than to argue with Her. Isaac was one of the big kids, he was eight. Isaac had been especially unpleasant to him and told him he was a freak.
He was still approaching as Isaac slipped
and fell. He tumbled in slow-motion and landed hard. His feet hit the ground first, but he fell backwards onto his bottom. There was a gasp from the other kids, they all instinctively knew, it was a bad tumble. Isaac would be quite badly hurt.
Isaac realised he couldn’t stand on his right leg and the pain started to throb from his right ankle. The tears started to flow down his cheeks.
As he arrived at the climbing frame and stood over Isaac, he waited for his Mum to tell him what to do now.
“Go away freak.” Isaac sobbed.
He could see the pain in Isaac’s eyes and focused on them, rather than the hurtful words that came from his mouth.
‘Help him.’ Mum said in his head.
‘How?’ He thought back.
‘Hold his ankle.’ Mother told him.
So, he did.
Neither child felt the heat generated by his hands. Neither child realised the bones in Isaac’s ankle slid back into place and fused back together seamlessly. All Isaac knew was the pain stopped almost immediately.
All he knew was his Mum whispered what a great job he was doing. Then She told him to let go.
He did as he was told.
Isaac got up, wiped the drying tears from his face and ran towards the house throwing a “freak” over his shoulder just for good measure.
He got up, he smiled again, the words didn’t hurt. He walked back to the edge of the yard and listened to his Mum tell him what a good boy he had been.
What a great job he had done.
What a special child he was.
How much She loved him.
Chapter Ten
We were ushered into the small house by the old-man. He hustled down the hall to the main living space. He almost pushed us into the two empty chairs. We were sat before we realised what had happened. I looked at Maria and she looked at me, both of us looked equally confused.
Many scenarios had gone through my head about what might happen in this encounter, but this had never occurred to me. I could tell Maria hadn’t considered it either.
“You want coffee? Yes.” The old man asked and answered. He leaned through the room’s rear door into what I presumed was the kitchen. “Carmelita, coffee for guests.”
We sat politely waiting for our drinks, unsure how to proceed. He had taken the initiative away from us and we were trying to work out how to get it back. Slowly a back emerged through the rear door. A slightly stooped old lady carried a tray of mugs into the room. I assumed this was the Carmelita the old man had just instructed to make coffee. She turned and put the tray on the coffee table in the middle of the room. She passed the cups around so we all had a drink in our hand. The old man and the old lady sat next to each other on the sofa, looked at each other, smiled and then he leant in giving her a peck on the cheek. Her face glowed, her eyes sparkled. It was easy to see the beauty she had been before age had dulled the edges.
“I am Miguel Hernandez, and this my wife Carmelita.” The old man said as an introduction at last.
“Thomas Benson.” I responded.
“Maria Silva.” Maria replied.
“I think you come talk about...” Father Hernandez searched for the right word. “incident.”
“Yes.” Maria and I said almost in unison.
“It was Sunday.” Father Hernandez said with a smile, it was obvious he enjoyed telling this story. “Weather was very hot. All the village there. I getting ready to preach to village. All village watching me. We sing hymns. I get up to speak. No words.”
He was still smiling. Carmelita was smiling and nodding her head at the retelling.
“I try again. No words.”
“What do you mean no words?” I interrupted.
“I not speak. Words not come. Silence.” Father Hernandez tried to clarify.
“OK.” I accepted.
“Then words. Lots of words but all same.”
“Sorry, what do you mean?” Maria asked this time.
“I repeat words again and again. Not words of sermon. Just words.”
“What words?” I asked.
“Not understand. Jorge understand. He teach me language.”
“I’m not with you at all.” I said thoroughly confused by what he was telling us. There was no mention of strokes or nearly dying, he was just rambling on in broken English about forgetting the words to his sermon.
“Maria, would you be better off talking him through it in Spanish?” I asked.
“I’ll try.”
Maria started slowly but between Father Hernandez and herself with a couple of interjections from Carmelita they rushed through what had happened that day.
Father Hernandez had been struck mute.
Father Hernandez hadn’t been in control of his body or mind.
Father Hernandez had repeated a phrase continuously in a language he didn’t know.
Father Hernandez had been released by ‘the power’ and collapsed.
Everyone thought he had had a stroke.
He knew he hadn’t.
He knew he had been touched by the divine.
After this he left the priesthood.
He married Carmelita and he’d never been happier.
Now I understood. The medical records told me it wasn’t a stroke or a heart attack or a brain aneurysm or anything else that could currently be explained by medical science. It was, I conceded, the first time I could possibly ascribe an event to an unknown supernatural force.
I wouldn’t call it a miracle though.
“How did you know we were coming?” I asked.
“Ender from restaurant phone me. Tell me two tourists looking for me. What else they want to talk me about.”
Nothing supernatural about that. Just good old-fashioned community.
I looked at the notes I had made. One question leapt out at me.
“What was the phrase you kept repeating?”
“I say in English. He is risen. He is risen. He is risen.” Father Hernandez explained.
Carmelita said something to him in Spanish that I didn’t understand but Father Hernandez just smiled at her and kissed her cheek again.
“Who is risen?” Maria asked.
“I don’t know.” Father Hernandez answered.
“It was definitely English?” I asked.
“I not know English at time. My friend Jorge tell me it was English and he tell me what I say. I do not know.”
“Can we speak to Jorge?” I asked.
“Sorry he pass away five years. He teach me English so I understand now.”
“You speak it very well.” Maria complimented him.
Father Hernandez said something to Carmelita and she got up to collect the mugs that were all now empty after the telling of the Father’s story. She put them all on the tray and took them into the kitchen.
Maria and I took the hint. We both rose from our seats. Father Hernandez showed us to the door. We exchanged farewells as we got back into the car.
The journey back to the hotel was spent in quiet contemplation by both of us as we digested what we’d heard.
My mind kept coming back to the words he had said rather than what had happened.
He is risen. He is risen. He is risen.
Find him.
We had never been tasked with finding the priest, William had always wanted us to find he who had risen.
We had almost reached the hotel when I mentioned my theory to Maria.
“I thought same.” Maria agreed. “But how?”
“I have no idea.” I sighed.
Chapter Eleven
Maria and I sat in the hotel bar in silence as both of us thought of how we could find a needle in a haystack.
It had seemed to both of us, the moment we completed one task, another waited directly behind it. We knew we were treading someone else’s path. We knew who that person was. I needed to speak to him.
I told Maria I was going to call him. She nodded in agreement. She was reaching the same conclusions as me.
It wa
s seven in the evening in Venezuela, midnight where he was. I didn’t care about the time. I just knew I needed to find out what he’d already worked out. We didn’t want to waste time chasing down blind alleys.
I speed dialled his number and put the phone on speaker so Maria could hear. He picked up on the second ring, as if he had been waiting for my call. His voice came through crystal clear. He could have been sat beside us rather than the five thousand miles that separated us.
“Thomas, I’ve been expecting your call.” William sounded upbeat and alert considering the time where he was.
“William, good to speak to you again.” There was always the formality of British people on the phone.
“So, you’ve met the priest?” It was a question not a statement.
“Yes.” I confirmed.
“Well then you’ve got as far as I did.” I let the silence hang in the air and waited for him to explain. William sighed and then continued. “Twenty-five years ago I got a call from a colleague who was touring South America, he told me he’d heard a story of a possessed priest. He’d spoken to the man and realised it was true. The priest had been touched by the divine.”
William paused in his recounting of the story.
“He asked me to come and talk with Father Hernandez and see if we could work out what to do with his prophecy.”
The word hit me almost physically. I sat up straighter in my chair as if that would help my understanding of what was going on. Prophecy was a strong word and wasn’t one that had come to me about what I was chasing down. Now it had been vocalised it was one that fit very well.
“I travelled to see him, he told me his story. I couldn’t see how to find the prophesied one so I dropped it, though I never forgot it.”
“So, that was why the cutting was in the filing cabinet? It was your writing on the back of it?” I asked.
“Yes, I kept it in there knowing I’d have to deal with it one day. But, that day never arrived. Instead you came. I knew you could find him for me.”
“OK.” I agreed. “So, what did you do to find him?”
“Very little.” William answered disappointingly. “The internet was young. There was little information of any use on there. The world was a big place. We knew we were searching for a male and that was pretty much it. We had nothing else to go on.”
