Thomas M. Disch

by The Priest

  Gerhardt fired. The charge tore off the cap of Father Cogling’s left shoulder and, striking the concrete, ricocheted all about the dome. A few bats died and dropped to the floor of the Shrine, but Father Cogling was still alive. He ran toward the door of the stairway.

  Gerhardt fired again. Father Cogling’s body smashed into the concrete base of the dome and, rebounding, toppled over the balustrade to plunge to the floor of the Shrine.

  Gerhardt leaned over the balustrade, amazed at what he’d done.

  It was the moment Greg had waited for. During the time that Gerhardt’s attention had been focused on the priest who had betrayed him, Greg had run forward in a crouch, as near as he thought he would have to get for his aim to be true. Then he hurled the brass candlestick he’d taken from the main altar, and the candlestick connected. Gerhardt fell, dazed, onto the railing of the balustrade.

  Greg didn’t hesitate. He was there beside him at once. The old man still had enough of his wits about him to sense what Greg intended. He was able to lift his hand and to say, “Don’t.”

  Greg caught hold of Gerhardt by the calf of his scrawny leg and tipped him into the Shrine’s central void.

  Gerhardt’s body landed atop that of the man he’d just killed. Together their corpses formed a kind of sign of the cross.

  43

  The following is excerpted from Appendix B of A Prolegomenon to Receptivist Science, Revised Edition, by A. D. Boscage (Exegete Press, 1993): In the interval since the appearance of the first edition of this investigation, I have been harshly dealt with by many socalled critics, who have pointed out real and pretended inconsistencies in my text. Many have done so in a spirit of open derision that has been a cause of real distress to myself and to the many others who have had experiences similar to my own and have had the courage to speak of them. What kind of “critic” is it who points the finger of laughter at those whose only fault is to have exhibited the psychic scars—or the still bleeding stigmata!— of sufferings such as I have recounted in these pages? Perhaps these wounds were inflicted by weapons unknown to the limited perspective of “scientific” investigation. I have never professed to be able to offer a complete scientific explanation for all that I have been a witness to. I leave that to those who will come after me. I have only been able to offer suggestions, hypotheses, hints, that may pierce the dark veil surrounding events that often do seem inexplicable.

  Perhaps the cruelest of all these critiques was that offered by someone I had supposed to be a friend. “Tripping with the UFO Messiah” appeared in a monthly magazine of limited circulation but high reputation (a reputation that has been irreparably tarnished by the publication of such a mean-spirited

  “hatchet job”), and it bore the byline of HéloIse Vendelle. As a rule, I refuse to read the screeds of those who have no other purpose than ridicule and vilification, but I knew Héloise Vendelle! She it was with whom I journeyed in 1981 to the ruined abbey church at Montpellier-le-Vieux. With her I had marveled at the picturesque remains of that abandoned city. She it was who had discovered me as I emerged dazed and confused from the crypt of Notre Dame de Gevaudon, after my experience of transmentation, and it was she who was my companion in the blisses of love for the three weeks that followed.

  What a very different account of that experience Héloise Vendelle related in the pages of that magazine which I forbear to name. According to her, there is no such city as Montpellier-le-Vieux! According to her, there has never been such a city! The blocks of stone that once formed the pillars of Notre Dame de Gevaudon are nothing, according to her, but geological formations of a peculiar character, the work not of medieval stonemasons but of eroding winds and rains! She quoted passages from reference books and even supplied her own poor-quality snapshots of what she claimed was Montpellier-le-Vieux. I looked at them and could not believe my eyes, for these were not the ruins we had visited!

  HéloIse claimed, further, that at the time of this visit I was under the influence of illicit substances—both amphetamines and hallucinogens. I have already written that Lorraine had purchased amphetamines when we were in Rodez, but they were entirely for her own use. I did prepare myself with a megadose of Vitamin C, and was in a state of heightened receptivity to my external environment. But I categorically deny using any hallucinogens, a kind of drug whose use I have forsworn since 1976. Perhaps Héloise Vendelle was dropping acid unbeknownst to me, but I was not!

  Unless (it suddenly occurs to me) she gave me acid without my knowing she did so! Oh, perfidy, if so! But why would she have done such a thing—she, whom for a little while I had loved and who had returned that love? Unless (which I shudder to suppose) she had been acting all along as an agent of the Aiphanes! Unless she had been intending from the first to throw my credibility into question by muddying the waters with this disinformation about “natural, geological formations”!

  With the advantage of hindsight, no other explanation seems possible.

  But what, then, of my experiences as Bonamico? Were they all mere hallucinations? Could they be false memories induced by mnemocytes? I cannot believe it; they are too vivid, too circumstantial. Bonamico lived, and, for a while, his life was mine—if not in the Middie Ages recorded by historians, then at some other, deeper level of reality.

  I have never been certain whether our Alphane visitors have come to us from the vasty reaches of outer space or from the no less vasty reaches of Inner Space. Extraterrestrial or supernatural? We cannot answer that question until they choose to make us privy to their secrets. Similarly, it may be that my transmentation to the Dark Ages took me not to an earlier century but to another realm altogether, a higher reality, such as philosophy has always posited, in which the irregularities and inconsistencies of our mundane existence have been effaced and one dwells among those figures Jung calls archetypes.

  There can be no final answer. Surely, the crude, material skepticism of those who would use the testimony of Héloise Vendelle to invalidate the whole of Receptivist Science offers no kind of answer at all. I know what happened to me. I felt it in my flesh. The wounds are visible on my soul. Those who have eyes can see them.

  44

  “It’s such a lovely rug, “Janet said, sitting down on it and petting it as though it were the fur of some gigantic pet. “But a white rug? How can you keep it clean?”

  “I don’t have to worry about that,” Alison said, sitting down beside Janet in front of the fireplace, which was all set up with logs in it so they could light a fire after dinner. “I’ve got a woman who comes in, and she does all the cleaning.”

  “That’s on top of the baby-sitter who looks after Cindi?”

  “Mm-hm. Except she’s not really a baby-sitter. She’s an au pair.”

  “0-pear?”

  “That’s what the French call their baby-sitters when they live in your house full-time. At least, according to Father Mab.”

  “And he lives here, too, along with the baby-sitter? The O-pear, I mean?”

  “Almost. You see, the house really belongs to him. We just have the use of it for five years, while Greg gets his degree. Greg doesn’t have any idea why the Anker guy wrote him into his will, except that he didn’t have any closer relatives. But he’s not complaining. The nice thing is, the house belongs to Greg—for the next five years anyhow— plus, he gets money that pays for his tuition and a whole lot besides. He wanted to get a Harley, but I told him I wouldn’t ride on it. So he got a Cherokee LTD instead.”

  “I saw it in the driveway. Leather seats!”

  “It’s got everything. Anyhow, with the house and the money he’s got, Greg doesn’t have to feel like he’s living off of me. Not that I’d mind, I’ve got so much, but I think he might.”

  “How much did you get, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “You won’t believe. Five million dollars.”

  “No shit? Jesus, that’s twice what I got. I guess I went to the wrong lawyer.”

  “Well, you might have got more if y
ou hadn’t given up your kid for adoption. Half of the five million is in a trust fund for Cindi, and we can’t touch that. Except that the au pair gets paid out of that money, and Cindi’s tuition when she goes to college. Mr. Kennedy, that’s our lawyer, said the Church didn’t even put up that much of a fight. They knew they’d lose their shirts if it went to a court case, that’s what Mr. Kennedy said.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was told, too. I wonder where they’ll get that kind of money. Besides us, they’ve had to buy off Raven Peck’s family, and Mary’s, and Tara Seberg’s. What’ll they do, sell their cathedral?”

  “Well, according to Father Mab, who’s got a friend who’s in charge of the Chancery, which is like the business office, they’re going to have to sell the Shrine.”

  “And tear it down, I hope. Who’d buy an old monstrosity like that?”

  “Apparently, there’s this religious group down in Texas that they’re trying to strike a deal with. Reverend Somebody-or-other. You can see him on cable TV.”

  “Isn’t it great having cable! So anyhow, you started out explaining about Father Mab and how he ‘almost’ lives here. What’s that all about?”

  “Well, he’s practically made himself part of the family. He’s back in the kitchen right now with Greg, fixing dinner. He loves to cook, and he’s pretty good, except that he makes fish more often than I care for.”

  “Not tonight, I hope. I hate fish. Mrs. Findley—that’s my new mom—is always making fish. Steamed fish. And brown rice with everything. She’s some kind of health nut, I think.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “Better than the first couple I got sent to live with. They were real creeps. I knew right from the start they just thought of me as a meal ticket.

  ‘Cause they knew I’d be getting a lot of money when the legal business was settled. At least the Findleys aren’t adopting me for my money. Mr. Findley is some kind of millionaire himself. He’s the Find-Icy with the dry-cleaning stores all over town. And you should see their house. It’s right on Lake Calhoun, and all brick, with a third floor that isn’t an attic. I mean, it’s a mansion.”

  “Are there other kids?”

  “Four of them, but two are already married and the other two are in college. I’ve got my own room, plus there’s a room they call the rec room in the basement, with a pool table, and I’m the only one who ever uses it. And I can have friends over anytime. It’s a nice situation, except for the fish.”

  “Well, don’t worry. Father Mab isn’t making fish. Or brown rice. He likes to eat pretty much the same things we do. He doesn’t cook all the time. We have a lot of takeout—pizzas, Chinese, barbecued ribs. He’s

  certainly no health nut.”

  “Do you think he’d mind if I had a cigarette?”

  “I’d mind, Janet. When did you start smoking? You’re only twelve years old.”

  Janet sighed resignedly. “I started smoking when I was ten, for Christ’s sake. And I’m not twelve, I’m thirteen and a half, almost. Mrs. Findley is just like you, she won’t let me smoke anywhere in the house.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t, it’s bad for you. And it’s especially bad for babies. I made Greg stop. For Cindi’s sake.”

  “Boy, you’ve really got him jumping through the hoop. No Harley, no smoking. Does he have to be in bed by eleven? I do.”

  “He doesn’t have to be. But we usually are. It’s like we’re still on our honeymoon.”

  “Oh, don’t talk about sex. Not with me. I go to this therapist in Edina three times a week, and she’s always wanting to talk about sex. I would just like to forget all that, and she says that’s just what I should do. But then she wants me to talk about how I feel about my parents, my real ones, who are in jail, which is just where they belong. But how can I talk about my dad and forget all that shit at the same time? I like the therapist in a lot of ways, she’s got a sense of humor, and I think she actually likes me, too. Only how can you tell if someone really likes you when she’s getting paid a hundred bucks an hour?”

  “I know what you mean. I go to my therapist twice a week now, but for a while it was four times a week. What my therapist said was to look at it as a job. If I didn’t have a lot of mental anguish, I wouldn’t be getting such a huge settlement.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  There was a light rap on the door. It was Thérèse, the au pair. She’d brought in Cindi for her good-night kiss. She was already half-asleep, so Alison didn’t make a big fuss, and she knew that Janet didn’t have much use for babies at this point, even a baby as sweet as Cindi.

  When Thérèse had taken Cindi back to her nursery, Janet said, “She’s older than you are.”

  “Yeah, it feels a little weird sometimes. I mean, she goes to college at night, and she’s always studying stuff whenever Cindi’s napping, and I’m still taking makeup courses to get a high school diploma. It feels funny telling her what to do. But it’s great having the free time.”

  “I don’t know. It must be different if you’re married. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I weren’t back at school.”

  “You like school? You don’t get hassled?”

  “There wasn’t all the publicity in the papers for me that there was for you. I don’t think the other kids know. And it turns out I’m really good at science. I get A’s without half trying.”

  “You’re bright, that’s why.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am. It’s nice. And it’s a really fancy school. You should see the gym. It’s got two trampolines. I love bouncing on those things. I think I’ll be on the gymnastics team next year. Maybe I’ll be the next Olga Korbut, that’s what my gym teacher says.”

  “Who’s Olga Korbut?” Alison asked.

  Janet shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’ll be the next one.”

  Greg came in from the dining room, wearing his brand-new Giorgio Armani suit with a midnight blue silk shirt under it and two gold chains peeking out from behind the open collar. “Dinner is served,” he announced.

  He led the way into the dining room, where the table was set with the genuine sterling silver flatware and the china that had cost $240 for each of the place settings (and that had been on sale) and little bouquets of flowers in front of each plate in addition to the big bouquet in the center of the table she’d gotten already made up by the florist for $75. Alison had never done anything like this in her life, but Father Mabbley had helped her with the details, and the final result really did look like a picture in a book.

  You almost didn’t want to sit down and eat off the plates. But Father Mabbley had said that now that they were nouveaux riches (which was another French word for when you suddenly came into a pile of money), this sort of thing was expected of you. If you didn’t show off, people would think you weren’t grateful for God’s blessings.

  “My gosh,” said Janet. “That is really something.”

  “Isn’t it,” Alison agreed.

  “Should we sit down now?” Greg asked. “Or should we wait for Father Mab?”

  “Sit down,” Father Mabbley called out from behind the louvered door that led to the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in no time at all.”

  Greg pulled out a chair for Janet, who sat down and very carefully unfolded the linen napkin that was on her plate. Alison and Greg sat down on either side of her, but then Greg got to his feet again. “The candles! I forgot to light the candles.”

  There were seven red candles mounted on a big silver candleholder, and Greg didn’t get the last of them lit until Father Mabbley entered the dining room, pushing a wheeled table with the dinner he’d prepared. There was a Caesar salad, and a big chicken potpie, and hot rolls sprinkled with sesame seeds, and yams baked with honey and walnuts, and little peas cooked in cream with bits of Italian ham. Janet oo-ed and ah-ed over her first taste of everything but the rolls, but it was the peas she went on about.

  “These are just incredible, Father,” she gushed. “I never thought I’d ask for a second helping
of peas. Jesus, they’re delicious!”

  “I’m glad you like them,” said Father Mabbley modestly.

  “This is better than any holiday dinner I ever had.”

  “Mm,” said Greg, nodding his head and swallowing. “I could say the same.

  Even if I did do half the cooking.”

  “You did?” Janet marveled, helping herself to more of the peas. “That’s amazing.”

  Aside from the compliments to the chefs, there was not a lot of conversation at the table. They all had second helpings of everything, and there were still leftovers, except for the peas, which Janet polished off after Father Mabbley insisted.

  Then they all went into the living room, leaving the unwashed dishes on the table. Greg lit a fire in the fireplace, and they settled down on different sections of the maroon leather sectional, with Father Mabbley sitting in the middle, where it curved.

  “I can’t tell you,” Father Mabbley began, “how happy I am to be allowed to meet you at last, Janet. After all these months.”

  “My lawyer explained to me,” said Janet, “that until everything was settled with the Church’s lawyers, I shouldn’t see anything of Alison. I guess their idea was that the Church’s lawyers would say we were making things up if we had a chance to be with each other. As though we needed to make things up!”

  “That’s over now, thank heaven,” Father Mabbley said, “and it’s all turned out for the best. At least for the four of us. I felt a similar frustration all this long while, because I was unable to talk about all the things I learned from Father Bryce and from the police—not even with Alison and Greg. In part, that’s because his first confidences were told to me under the seal of the confessional.”

  “But you’re not a priest anymore,” Greg pointed out.

  “That doesn’t relieve me of an obligation to my vows. It only means that I don’t draw my salary from the Church anymore. In any case, Father Bryce eliminated that scruple by insisting that he would tell the police what they wanted to know only if I acted as his interrogator. He was quite obstinate, and the police indulged him in his whim. And so I learned the whole of the story again, in extraordinary detail. And almost all of it turned out to be pure fantasy.”