On the Third Day

by David Niall Wilson

  “What can I do,” he asked at last.

  “I’m not sure,” Michaels replied, his voice weary. “I’m not sure if I can do anything, either, but I intend to try.”

  “How,” Sean asked.

  “I wanted to give you a heads up, Sean,” Michaels said wearily. “I intend to attend the Easter Mass atSanMarcos this year. I’m going to film it – cameras directly on Father Thomas. The media will be excluded, of course. I’ve called in favors from the local police. They’ll be lined up in the parking lots and on the road, probably even bring in helicopters, but they won’t get into the church.”

  “Is that wise,” Sean asked. “How will the parish react? Do they support him? Are they afraid? We wouldn’t want to seem intrusive, or harsh.”

  “I’ll keep it all as low key as I can,” Bishop Michaels said. “I will do everything in my power to make it seem routine, as if maybe we want to have the film for training, or a documentary. I’ll even pretend to believe, if it can help us through this and on to normalcy. Something. I won’t come across as the ogre, but I have to set this to rest.”

  The line went silent for a moment, and Cardinal O’Brien broke that silence.

  “What if you can’t?”

  “That’s what you’re there for, isn’t it Sean?” There was a light chuckle at the other end of the line, and Sean relaxed slightly.

  He stared off into the shadows of his dark bedroom. His mind was drifting, and he was thinking about other churches, other places, and other times. He shook his head, realizing the line had remained silent for too long.

  “Try to keep an open mind, Tony,” he said softly. “Call me, one way or the other, the minute the services have concluded.”

  “Of course,” Bishop Michael’s chuckled again. “That’s why I called you now, Sean. If this thing blows up in my face, I know you’ll be there to wipe it off – but if it doesn’t, I expect full credit for my good deeds.”

  They both laughed for a moment, then O’Brien’s tone grew grave once again, and he asked.

  “How have you been, Tony?” He hesitated, and then added, “You sound a little more tense than usual. Maybe you should pack up your things and pay a visit to Rome – unwind a little.”

  There was silence, just for a second, and then Michaels chuckled again.

  “When this all blows over,” he said, “I might just do that. It’s been a very long time.”

  “That it has,” O’Brien agreed in mild relief.

  “Get some sleep, Sean. I’m sorry to have woken you so late. I spoke with Father Thomas, the priest I mentioned, earlier this afternoon, and it just wouldn’t let me go, you know?”

  “I do,” O’Brien replied. “More than you know, Tony. Sleep, now, that has never been a problem for me. May God be with you, old friend.”

  “And also with you,” Bishop Michaels replied.

  There was an audible click, and then the dial tone blared to life. Cardinal O’Brien sat for a while, holding the receiver in his hand as the tone buzzed angrily through the silence. Then, as if waking from a light doze, he stared at it and placed it back onto the cradle, returning the room to silence.

  He thought briefly of another man, a younger man. The Cardinal reached up without thought and pressed against his nightshirt with the palm of one hand. He felt the familiar bulge of soft leather, and he stroked it as he thought. Father Prescott was in South America, but he would be returning soon. If things progressed… Still, that was something to think about only if necessary.

  He lay back, stared at the intricate pattern of shadows on his ceiling, and off to sleep.

  ~Two~

  Sunlight streamed through low hanging, silver-gilded clouds and washed over the white stone walls of the Cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea. The view was overwhelming. Breakers crashed into the rocks below and sent huge pillars of white foam dancing skyward. The Cathedral, a throwback to earlier Spanish roots, sat perched on the brink of a vertical drop of nearly a hundred feet. From just the right angle, particularly coming at it from the North on a boat, the church seemed ready to topple into the ocean below, or the waves themselves to be giant talons that would wrap themselves about the gleaming stone and drag it into the depths. It was the perfect symbolic representation of man’s existence, hovering on the brink of destruction with the promise of beauty and light just out of reach.

  The main doors of the Cathedral were open wide. They were huge, wooden and polished, and stood easily ten feet in height. Their monstrous brass handles gleamed in the morning light, winking at the birds overhead. The structure had been preserved with strict adherence to the original design; a wealthy parishioner living in nearby San Valencez donated the work and the funding. At one point, the building had been near ruin and the Church on the verge of closing it down. Now it was one of the gems of the Western seaboard.

  Though they still called it a Cathedral, San Marcos now served a congregation of those willing to make the drive each week from San Valencez and Lavender California, rather than housing its own Diocese. The Bishop and his entourage had moved into more spacious and modern quarters in San Valencez proper, leaving the care of San Marcos, and those who attended services there, to Father Quentin Thomas.

  More than one hundred and fifty of the faithful curled their backs into the smooth, polished pews of San Marcos when Father Thomas took to the altar for Mass. On a special occasion it would be closer to two hundred. They trickled in all morning, some hurrying to get “good seats,” others arriving later, or lingering outside for gossip and fellowship.

  Most of them came from the city and enjoyed the scenery and quiet, serene drive up the curving coast highway, but there were others. San Marcos had watched over the ocean and beyond, since the late 1700s. Some families drove down from the mountains and hills, Friendly California, and Kingdom Come, as well as Lavender, down closer to the city. These were families whose fathers and grandfathers had attended the Mass in San Marcos. Old families.

  Father Thomas knew them all, old, young, those who were there every week, and those who rolled in for holidays and confession. He knew the ladies who brought pies and cookies to the rectory each Sabbath, piling his desk so high with sweets and casseroles that he would despair of finding room for them in his freezer, let alone his stomach. He knew who could be counted on for volunteer projects, and who showed up for the sake of appearance alone.

  Father Thomas had been assigned to the parish four years earlier. Bishop Michaels himself handed over the keys to the rectory and introduced him to the congregation. The Bishop, of course, had been fully tuned in on San Valencez and the future of the Diocese, explaining his move to those gathered as if it were their concern – as if he were a politician, and not the man responsible for their spiritual nurturing. The congregation of San Marcos had not been particularly sorry to see Bishop Michaels depart.

  Father Thomas had seen the resentment in their eyes. When he stepped forward, very young for such a responsibility, he felt the weight of years he had yet to live bearing down on his shoulders. Then the Bishop had stepped down, and it had been Father Thomas alone, pinned in place by all their eyes, hopes, dreams and problems, and it had suddenly felt – right. He spoke to them honestly that day, prior to performing his first Mass in San Marcos. In a few short words, he tried to make clear to them that he understood the faith they were placing in him, the responsibility that faith entailed, and the commitment required to make it work.

  It worked, and it had continued to work wonderfully for both Father Thomas and the parish, right up to the preceding April. Right up until the moment that his world, and theirs, had canted over on one side and poured things over and around them that they could not understand.

  Now Father Thomas stood, as he did every Sunday morning, evening, and at each Mass during the week, his feet planted firmly on the top step of the wide stone stair leading out and down toward the small courtyard below, greeting his parishioners as they arrived.

  In the parking lot below, two black and wh
ite San Valencez Police cruisers sat, parked at forty-five degree angles to one another. There were four uniformed officers lined up across the base of the stairs leading up to the cathedral, but on Thomas’ insistence, they were not accosting his parishioners. Their job was to insure that the press did not slip cameras or broadcasting equipment into the cathedral, and Thomas had promised to give the nod to any suspicious or unknown worshippers, making a search of each individual unnecessary.

  This day was different from any in his memory, but he didn’t want to pass this presentiment on to those attending Mass, though he was aware that they felt it as well as he. He saw it in their eyes. Father Thomas knew those eyes, knew their expressions and their questions, and knew many of their hidden secrets and dreams. He stayed by the door as long as he could and still leave himself time to prepare. Of all days, he wanted this one to be as much like any morning Mass as possible, even more normal than normal. With the police guards and the other oddities he knew were to come, the task was very likely not possible.

  The congregation knew it as well. They watched him, as they filed past. When they spoke, their voices were too polite, or too concerned. None of it felt real. Many had brought friends and relatives who would not regularly have attended, even on Easter. It was going to be a large crowd – the largest he’d faced since coming to San Marcos. There were faces he’d never seen before, and as these passed, feeling as if he were somehow betraying a trust, he nodded toward the police below.

  For one brief moment, Father Quentin Thomas considered not giving them a show to write home about. He could tell the Bishop he didn’t feel up to it, take the weight of that man’s accusations onto his shoulders, and turn away. Bishop Michaels could perform Easter Mass. It hadn’t been that long since the man had presided over this very parish.

  The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and Father Thomas returned to shaking hands and smiling, asking after children and sick grandparents, ushering them in one and all to the Church. San Marcos swallowed them hungrily.

  Down the coast road, a long black Cadillac wound it’s way upward. It slipped in and out of sight as it rounded curves, one moment glittering in the sun, the next obscured by the cliffs, or overgrowths of small trees.

  Father Thomas turned to watch it approach. He knew the car, knew who was leaning back into the leather of the back seat, eyes stern and mouth set in a grim line. Father Thomas knew what was in the trunk, as well, and what was planned.

  He hadn’t fully recovered from the moments in the Bishop’s office. He hadn’t fully regained the composure and confidence he’d had when he believed that there was someone a step closer to God to turn to – someone with compassion and knowledge. He’d seen things in Bishop Michaels’ eyes, but compassion wasn’t among them. He’d seen confusion, fear – even a mild hatred. He’d seen disbelief and scorn. Now those eyes would be trained fully on the day’s worship and on Father Thomas himself. They would seek, and record, but Quentin was no longer certain that what they sought was the truth.

  He snapped his attention back to the moment. All but the last stragglers had entered the church, and in moments he’d be too late to slip around the rear of the rectory and get into position in time. On this day, of all days, he wanted to be punctual. He wanted everything to play out like an old, familiar movie with no surprises, and no guest appearances.

  Last to mount the steps was a formidable figure that brought the morning’s first genuine smile to Father Thomas’ lips.

  Weighing in at 242 pounds, and seventy-four years, Gladys Multinerry hit the bottom step with the determined stride of a general getting ready to confront her troops. Her huge arms quivered, and Father Thomas saw her grimace with pain as she lifted herself up the first step.

  Without a further thought about being late for the Mass, or the black Cadillac, which had just cruised down the drive and stopped not fifty yards away, Father Thomas hurried down the stairs and offered the woman his arm.

  “Gladys,” he said, half-chiding, half-greeting the woman. “Here – let me help you up the stairs. Where is Norman?”

  She glanced up at him. Relief flashed across her features, then gratitude, but they flickered across the broad expanse of her face so quickly that only one who knew her well would have noticed them at all. Her brow furrowed in pain and concentration, Gladys took his arm.

  “You’d just better help me, young man.” She said querulously. “I haven’t missed an Easter Mass at San Marcos in the past fifty years, and I don’t aim to make this the first. Been coming here longer than you’ve been alive.

  “Norman, now, he wouldn’t come here on Easter any more than any other Sunday. But you know that, Father.”

  Father Thomas nodded. He’d heard the speech before, and he fought to suppress the grin that rose to greet it.

  “I know, Gladys,” he replied, smiling. “I believe the Lord would send one of his Archangels to check on you if you didn’t make an appearance, and that’s a fact.” He didn’t ask after her son again. Norman Multinerry was not fond of Mass, or of Father Thomas, for that matter.

  Gladys glanced at him sharply, and then grinned.

  “I’ve seen priests come and go, Father,” she said, turning back to her laborious effort at climbing the stairs. “I was here when that one was young,” she nodded over at Bishop Michaels, who had exited his car and stood staring up at Father Thomas sternly while the Cadillac’s driver emptied equipment out of the trunk.

  Father Thomas only nodded, helping her up another few steps. When they’d almost crested the top, she hesitated, and he turned to her, questioning.

  “Never seen anything like last year,” she said softly. Father Thomas gazed thoughtfully into her eyes for a moment, reading the concern there – the compassion he’d thought he might find in Bishop Michaels, and, again, he smiled.

  “Neither have I, Gladys. Neither have any of us.”

  They reached the summit, and Gladys rested there for a moment, still searching Father Thomas’ face for something. He wondered if she was finding it.

  “I mean it, Father,” she insisted. “I’ve never seen a thing like it.”

  “Now Gladys,” Father Thomas replied, trying to keep the slightly annoyed, slightly pained expression off his face. He needed to get inside before Bishop Michaels had something else to hold against him, but somehow this moment needed completion.

  “Let’s not make more of this than it actually is,” he said at last. “We’re here to celebrate the day our Lord arose from death into the light of a new day. A day, I sometimes think, was much like this one. Let’s keep ourselves focused on that, and see where the Lord leads us.”

  It was Gladys’ turn to nod, but she wasn’t quite finished. She looked him up and down a last time; then she reached out and gripped his shoulder in one meaty palm, giving him an encouraging squeeze.

  “I’ve seen a lot of things, Father. I’ve done a lot of things as well; make no mistake of that. Some I admire, some I regret, and you could get some tales if you could bring back all the priests I’ve confessed them to, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’m blessed to have attended your Mass, and that’s a fact.”

  Father Thomas’ throat constricted very suddenly, and his eyes burned with the threat of tears. He tried to speak, but no words came, so he gently gripped Gladys Multinerry, eldest member of his Parish and speaker of truth by both her chubby shoulders and spun her toward the doors.

  He shooed her with a wave of his hand, and turned away, slipping off around the wall and out of sight. Beneath him Bishop Michaels had mounted the stairs himself, a heavy case in one hand. With every passing moment the sun grew brighter and rose closer to the center of the sky.

  ~Three~

  The glow from high stained glass windows drenched the polished wood of the altar rail, the ornate pews, the lush carpets and heavy tapestries hanging on the walls in deep rich color. The daylight blended with the dim brilliance of sconces lining the walls. The two sources of illumination joined to create a mellow glo
w of light that suffused the room.

  A balcony ran across the back of the Cathedral, about twenty feet up from the floor, and curled around the sides of the room toward the front like a theatre. Nearly every seat on the main floor was filled. Colorful hats and intricate hairstyles glittered. Diamonds and pearls captured splinters of light and flashed them back toward the walls and the ceiling. A dull roar of voices vibrated the air. The sound echoed off the walls, rustled among the shuffling feet and slipped in and out of tune like a radio stuck on scan, first one station, then the next, never staying with one voice long enough to truly make sense.

  The air rippled with tension.

  Father Thomas stood just out of sight, not quite ready to enter. He watched the sea of faces beneath him, as he had watched them a thousand times before, and he shivered. He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes, centering on the next few moments. He knew that once he had started, once the ancient words rolled off his tongue, that he would be fine. They were a part of him – the Mass was a part of him, and he knew that it would not let him down once he had the chance to release it. A lot of what he faced frightened him, but the Mass itself was not among them. This was where he had always been meant to be.

  He stepped out from the shadows and a sigh rippled through the congregation. He strode forward in silence, concentrating on each footstep. He put the past out of his mind and spoke, welcoming them all to San Marcos, and to another Easter. He spoke briefly and pointedly of the day, and its meaning. Then, without further preamble, he launched into the opening words of the liturgy. He felt the palms of his hand go clammy with sweat, and for a panicked moment mistook the sweat for the blood he’d felt the previous year. He thought, just for that second, that the itch had returned, and it was all he could do to keep himself in motion and overcome the illusion. He managed a glance at his left hand to reassure himself and took a quick gulp of air as he saw nothing but smooth skin and the deep rich material of his vestments.