by D. L. Scott
“Yes, carry on.”
The country gentleman’s heavily accented voice on the other side launched into a rushed story about a pub, a waitress, and he thought he heard a sheep mentioned at some point. Rutherford didn’t understand most of it except that it was yet another story of infidelity.
“Anyway, I’ve…uh…I got drunk you see. Last Sat’day at the poob. Big Marlo was me waitr’ss and served in these big glass’s. An’ thar was this lass, ye see. An’ I don’t rightly remembered how it happin’d boot uh…I en’ed oop in bed wit’ her.”
“This was someone you’ve just met?”
“Well, I seen ‘er aroun’. I can’ believe she even went fer me. Can’ believe my luck.”
“And what does your wife think of this?”
“Me weef…uh…doesn’t knoo. I canna tell her. I’m supposed t’ be out wit’ the gents all weeken’.”
“Let me ask you this. Do you want to be unfaithful? Do you love your wife?”
“Oh, yes Father. We been together some 15 yars ‘n I don’ expect I’d ever fin’ a woman lik Rose. But this’d kill ‘er. I’d n’ver done th’like before and I n’ver do it again.”
“Well that’s good to hear. You are very sorry for what you have done. The Lord is good to hear that. You must never stray again. In fact what the real problem is your vice of drink.”
A sigh was heard on the other side. “Giv’ up the poob?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I’d just say you need to cut back a little. And next time you go to the pub, why not invite Rose along. Try and involve her in every aspect of your life. This will help you count the many blessings you have with her.”
“A’aight Father, I could try.”
“Good. The Lord cannot expect greater than that. To try…to try and improve oneself by enriching your life with the ones you love.”
“Should I tell her?”
“Well, if you are truly sorry, for your sins and promise not to do it again, the Lord knows and forgives. Cheated wives, however, may not be so tolerant. Better yet go to her and show her how much more you love her than any other woman you might find in a pub.”
“Like flo’ers?”
“Yes, that is a good start. Pray your act of contrition, return to your wife and go in peace, my son. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.”
The Vicar waved his hands in front of him in the sign of the cross and saw the man’s shadow doing the same to himself.
“Thank you, Father. I’ll do right by ‘er I will.”
The wall creaked again as the man stood up and scurried out. Just another in a long line of unfaithful husbands that needed guidance back to the straight and narrow. It didn’t surprise him much anymore, although some of the more frequent flyers did manage to make him blush once in a while.
His eyes floated along the diamond pattern of the violet faux-velvet wall next to him. The soft yellow light emanating from his table lamp sprayed his silhouette over the wicker grate. He peered at his watch again. Still twenty minutes to go.
He turned off the outside cross-light, and shifted in his seat. A soft bed and a tube of Preparation-H is what he needed right now. There was a skittering sound high above him.
He followed it with his eyes until it stopped. He picked up the bible next to him, sighed a tired sigh, and opened it to a page dutifully marked with a green cloth ribbon bookmark. The sound of a woman screaming made him close it again.
“Hullo?” he said in a louder-than-confessional voice. “Sister Catherine, is that you? Is everything all right? Hullo?”
He could hear his voice bouncing off the walls. The church was fairly small and echoed terribly. No reply came. He heard the skittering overhead again.
He took his round spectacles off his nose, and set them down neatly on the table on top of a purple, felt polishing cloth. He stood and reached for the handle on the door.
"Sister Catherine, if there's another mouse in the vestibule, please do not kill it. Just write it down on the list for the custodian, but please don't disturb the--"
The opposite door quickly opened and slammed shut. Rutherford jumped and turned toward the grate. A dark form stood there, barely moving. It made a raspy wheezing sound.
“You startled me,” he said, “Are you here to confess your sins?”
The form stood unmoving.
“In the Name of the Father and the Son and—”
“Vicar,” said a raspy voice giving Rutherford a start, “You are in danger.”
“What? Who…who is this?” said Rutherford, a little frightened.
“Bless me for I have sinned,” it rasped, sounding as if its vocal cords had been cut, “I’ve killed three people. I’ve done something….something terrible. And I shall burn.”
Father Rutherford sat down trembling, wondering if the scream was one of his victims.
“I will kill again if they find me.”
“My…son. What is wrong with your voice?”
“You’ve had dreams. They are an omen….and a warning.”
“You aren’t making any sense.”
“That’s how it started for me. Dreams…then, you can’t sleep, right? You have the same dream over and over and it changes slightly worse every time?”
“How...how did you know that?” he said in a whisper.
“They’ll get worse. And you’ll change. If you use it, you’ll change. Do you hear me?”
“Now, now, son. If you’ve committed the terrible mortal sin of murder, you must repent and turn yourself in. Only then will you receive salvation.”
“The beads you received. I gave them to you. I had to get rid of them. This is what they did to me.”
“The beads?” said Rutherford softly. He straightened up, “What beads?”
“The wooden rosary beads. I left them in the church hung on the hook in the room off the altar place many years ago. I had to leave them quickly.”
The Vicar remembered them; an old set of dark red oak Anglican rosary beads. At his ordination years ago, they were left in the vestibule, set on a hook right next to his first set of new vicar’s vestments. No note. He assumed they were a gift from Bishop Banks, yet it was a surprise receiving something so antique from his friend who never had so much as owned an antique footstool. Each bead was exquisitely carved with a unique raised picture with Latin symbols. The fetching silver cross likewise had symbols along its perimeter which Rutherford had never seen before. So how did this person in his confessional know about this?
“You left them?” said Father Rutherford.
“Yes. Tell me you didn’t use them! You mustn’t!”
“My son, they are just beads. Now you must atone for your evils and turn yourself in. Please calm down. Everything will be…everything will be alright.”
“You mustn’t use them, Father. They have powers. Each bead you use. It’ll seem fine at first. Translation, healing, but then it gets worse,” the voice croaked. The figure seemed to grow.
Rutherford leaned forward and peered through the wicker. The man seemed to wear quite a fur coat. Claws poked through the wicker as the figure grabbed hold and emitted a noise, a growl of some sort like a lion or bear. The Vicar fell backwards out of his chair. The noise subsided.
“But why did you leave them?” said Father Rutherford, getting to his feet.
“I had to get away from them and put them in safe hands. I figured your hands, the church’s hands were the best place, but now I know that was wrong. It will just make things worse.”
“The beads…my son. Tell me. Tell me what you’ve done. Let me help you.”
“You have to destroy them. They are coming. I came to warn you. They are looking for them,” he said growling more and getting more excited.
There was a sudden roar and the cage shook so hard Rev. Rutherford feared the wall would crumble on top of him. The Vicar held on for dear life.
“Please, my son, you are forgiven, now please calm yourself.”
/> There was a slam and something galloping away from the confessional. Father Rutherford stood frozen, looked intensely at the opposite door handle, and then down at his own. Slowly, he reached for it. It popped open easily and wobbled there.
He chewed on a fingernail waiting and watching the crack in the door, and then gave it a gentle push.
The door creaked slowly, revealing the faded light blue carpet, which led up the aisle to where he could see faintly glowing candles flickering by the altar. The rest of the church was like twilight.
He clung to the false security of his small box as his eyes followed a trail of muddy, odd-shaped tracks through the dimness and up to the lit carving of the Lord looking down on His people with hands outstretched. The carving also seemed to see no one about. Rutherford peered into the darkness and wondered if the man, for lack of a better word, had gone out the door to the vestibule or…if he was still there.
He heard more skittering overhead, this time following it with his eyes, a mad scramble from one side to the other. The flap-flap of the plastic fan behind him matched tempo with his heartbeat.
“Go in peace, my son,” he whispered into the cavernous room, “you are forgiven.”
Rutherford made a sign of the cross into the empty air. He closed the door and sat down to collect himself, then after another moment, hastily locked the door.
“Good evening, Reverend Rutherford.”
Rutherford gasped and looked through the wicker again. There was another form, another voice in the shadow.
“Reverend Rutherford,” a well-mannered and educated voice said again, “What did he tell you?”
The click of a pistol being cocked sent a cold shiver up Rutherford’s spine that would freeze juice into a popsicle. He folded his hands and began to shake.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven….H-h-hallowed be thy Name…”
“Yes, you should pray, Vicar, if we don’t find what is ours. Your place is clean. Now what did he tell you?” said the man-shaped figure who Rutherford could tell wore a fedora and a darkish suit.
My place is clean? thought Rutherford, Has he broken into the rectory? He thanked the saints above that he had given the housekeeper the day off.
“Who—” he finally said.
“The man that was here before. What did he say?”
“Nothing. He confessed his sins which I cannot divulge.”
There was a long pause.
“My son, have you something to confess?” added the Vicar awkwardly.
“Yes. Yes I do,” the voice mocked, “I might have to kill a man, Father.”
The faint glow from the lamp lit the barrel of a pistol pointed at him through the wicker. Rev. Rutherford’s face went pale. He stared back, mouth agape at the glistening barrel. His hands fell upon an object in his robe pocket which it tightened around.
“Let me be specific. Did he mention beads?”
Rutherford glanced downward. The ridges of the antique Anglican rosary beads now in his hand felt warm to his palm as he squeezed them. What made him take them off the mantelpiece that morning, of all mornings, he did not know.
“My son, I don’t know what you are talking about, but you are in a House of God,”
Rutherford mustered, trying to sound even the least bit authoritarian, but terrified out of his stuffy black shoes. “Now, please. You will be forgiven if you only seek penitence.”
Rutherford slowly reached through the side slit in his cassock and pulled a handkerchief out of his pants pocket. He dabbed his face on an embroidered monogram ‘R’.
“My son?”
There was silence. He could see nothing through the wicker. He glanced toward the door, considered staying here for the night, then saw his timid hand open it. This time only darkness greeted him. The sweet smoke from the extinguished candles filled the long hall.
Rutherford stepped out, the confessional light giving him a little more visibility. The police. I must call the police.
He started for the large double-doors that led outside. He plunged his hand into his robe pocket again and squeezed the rosary, reciting a quick prayer.
“Holy Man! No!” came a much smaller voice behind him. He whipped around again. There was no one about.
“Over here! Go there no! Humans with guns!”
He stepped tentatively toward the stained glass window he had cranked half-open earlier and peered out.
“Here come!” said the small voice. He could still see no one about. “Bad men kill at doors.”
Rutherford looked back toward the door, then up into the darkness of the tabernacle.
“Quick!”
He made a start for the window and realized how he was clothed. He hurried into the confessional, quickly removed his confessional stole, kissed it on the gold embroidered cross at its apex and hung it neatly back on its hook. He then shoved his spectacles onto his head and straightened them.
“Holy Man!”
He started out, then returned to set the lamp back in place, locked the confessional door and pushed it closed. Light from within continued to spill out from underneath and a green light above in the shape of a cross glowed, signifying that a priest was indeed on duty to hear your sins.
He finally turned to the window, where the curious little voice had been replaced by impatient chittering and squeaking. Behind him in the church he could still hear the plastic-on-plastic flap-flap-flap of the confessional fan cutting through the sacred silence.
He peered through the window opening outside and was surprised to see the brown eyes of a small furry creature staring back at him. It twittered excitedly. His hands fell upon the beads in his pocket again.
“—Holy Man, come. Come out. Not safe there. Gun humans!”
He stared in disbelief. Behind him he suddenly heard a force at the front double doors that made him jump.
“Quickly, they come!”
He quickly dove down through the window, sliding at a 45-degree angle. His cassock made the slide fairly easy, albeit the metal rods that held the colored panes in place rubbed painfully against his ribs and abdomen. If only Mrs. Waterhouse’s cooking was not so tasty.
He grabbed on to the concrete sill outside and pulled, trying to slide himself completely out, but his stomach again resisted. His weight pushed the window closed slightly making his legs flail upward. He helplessly kicked against the air. A loud thump echoed against the large doors of the church, then a shot was fired.
Rutherford held his breath and sucked in. At once, he fell through the opening, popping the button on his trousers and landing headfirst into the bushes below. Dazed, he listened above him, as the unmistakable grind of the big doors opening echoed.
Underneath him he felt a wriggling and a sudden gouge in his back. He rolled over and a plump, grey raccoon scurried out and chittered angrily at him. Rutherford gave the small creature a scolding look and put a finger to his lips. He reached into his pocket again. The bulbous wooden beads were there.
He squeezed one and looked toward the raccoon, but this time was greeted to a harsh shock. He pulled his hand back and stuck his throbbing finger in his mouth. Overhead, he could hear whispers and creaky floorboards giving away the presence of two, maybe three individuals.
Rutherford tied the beads around his waist and crawled along the damp ground, feeling water against his back. It rained so often he tended not to notice it as much lately. He scurried behind a clump of trees and ducked down while the sound and flash of gunfire strobed behind him from inside. His hand unconsciously clutched the rosary again.
“Oh, Lord, save me,” he whispered.
“Run, Holy Man, run! Run run run!” the raccoon exclaimed, its hands waving frantically.
He clutched two beads and received a very unusual pulse. A tingle. A tickle. He recoiled, then dashed through the trees to a small grotto and fountain devoted to Mary.
He looked into the water at the large moon overhead as he kissed the beads for strength. The hand holding them suddenly droppe
d the beads, which fell to his side. It shrunk and fused together. Long claws extended out of the nails.
"That is NOT my hand!" panicked the Vicar.
He flailed for the beads as his other hand transformed as well.
"No. What is happening? Why did you do this?"
He bent down to splash water on his face with his cupped....paw. He was not waking up. The face looking back at him no longer was familiar. It began to slide and melt away.
His nose and eyes grew and blackened. His face became furry and gray. Even his belly now was expanding and became itchy as the transformation continued taking over his body.
"No, don't! Don't go anywhere!" he shouted at the masked creature staring back at him. The creature in the mirror looked sad, even as its long whiskers grew and its ears poked out of his head.
“Please, come back! Help!” he tried to shout, but instead only twitters and squeaks came out. He fell and rolled on the ground on his back, exposing a large rotund belly beneath his robes.
He flipped over, then scurried to the church and clambered up the drainpipe, his chasuble blowing around him. He clambered up to the protection of the steeple and there he wept as he could hear a barrage of gunfire below him. The beads still dangled from his belly and clacked in the wind.
He reached for them, to undo this nightmare, but now could not reach them. He sat sobbing in the silence of the night, looking up at the moon, at God.
A noise startled him from behind. Over the side came a small hand. And then another. Then he was once again looking into the brown eyes of the fat little raccoon that saved him. It limped over to him, blood leaking from its side.
Rutherford gasped and folded his hands. Then he picked up the raccoon, who looked up at him in wonder. Rutherford placed a hand on it and prayed and at once the bleeding stopped. The raccoon looked back at him and smiled.
“You are the One,” it said.
Rutherford looked down at it and could not speak.
# # #
For many years after, patrons would speak of a robed creature that sits on the rooftop of the hollowed-out church. Regular masses are no longer held there, as now the church plays host to many unusual animals in need that flock and herd their way through its immense double-doors. Animals kneel side by side with humans in hopes to be blessed by the benevolent spirit, which some believe to be the church’s patron saint, while others say it is an angel sent from Heaven to protect the church in retribution for the good priest who was once murdered there. But for all that are sick or wounded, whatever their species, The Raccoon would be there giving care and comfort for many centuries thereafter.
