On the Third Day

by David Niall Wilson

  Finally he could stand it no longer, and he turned to the driver, shouting to be heard over the roar of the Jeep’s motor and the squeaking of the shocks.

  “How much further to Father Prescott?” he asked.

  The Jeep hit an exceptionally large bump. The driver grunted and fought to keep the vehicle under control. Father Morrigan, who’d not been expecting the extra jolt, flailed his arm wildly, found the roll bar and gripped it tightly. He pressed back into the seat as the Jeep skewed at an angle for a moment, then slid back true, and darted ahead.

  They rounded a curve and slid into a large, cleared area. The Jeep slowed and turned off onto a gravel road. There was a worn sign in the shape of an arrow pointing down the road. It read simply SAN SEBASTIAN.

  Moments later, moving at a much less dangerous speed, they turned yet again and rolled through an overhanging arch of vines and thin slats of wood. Huge blooming flowers dangled heavily from the vines. Father Morrigan blinked once, then again. Something had moved. Something deep in that cluster of slats and leaves had been there, and then moved on.

  The mission building sprawled before them. San Sebastian was a low-slung adobe structure, butted up against the edge of the jungle so that from the front it had the appearance of being swallowed whole by greenery. The doors in front were tall, heavy and wooden, bound in bands of black iron like something out of the 18th century. Brian wished he’d done his homework better – maybe this place was from the 18th century.

  There was a large crucifix planted outside the windows in front and a stone slab rested in the ground at its feet. The slab was gray granite. Inscribed across the flat, glossy surface of the stone in letters large enough to read from where he sat was the following inscription.

  “For God so loved the earth that he gave his only begotten son…”

  Father Morrigan climbed free of the Jeep as quickly as he could and stood still for a moment to catch his balance. He stared at the mission and wondered again why he was there. There were a dozen seasoned Jesuits who might have made this journey, men who were familiar with the language, the people, and more importantly than any of those things – with Father Prescott.

  Standing before the primitive statue and mouthing the familiar words of the inscription, Father Morrigan felt something stir within him. A sudden wind riffled through the errant waves of his hair, and he pushed his glasses up on his nose again, the gesture so familiar he didn’t realize he’d done it. He had seen a thousand such statues, stood on the steps of some of the grandest cathedrals in the world, but this was new. He felt a primal pulse of vitality and felt it ripple through the leaves and verdant grass.

  The driver stepped past him silently and opened the heavy wooden door of the mission. Father Morrigan turned and followed quickly, afraid the man would let the door close on him and leave him standing alone within a stone’s throw of the jungle.

  The door closed behind them with a resonant boom.

  ~ Six ~

  It took a few moments for Father Morrigan’s eyes to grow accustomed to the dimly lit interior. There was light from an array of stained glass windows high overhead, but the glass was very thick, and the colors were deep and rich. They blocked most of the brightness of the sun, and the only other illumination was a series of torches that rested in sconces along the walls, flickering eerily and sending shadows out to meet near the center of the large hall where Father Morrigan stood.

  It’s like stepping back in time, he thought.

  He heard shuffling footsteps and squinted. An aged priest made his way out of the rear of the building, slowly becoming visible as he slipped free of clinging shadows and stepped more fully into the light.

  A hallway stretched back into the shadows, and Father Morrigan was forced to reassess his initial impression of the size of the place. He wondered how much of it had actually been swallowed by the jungle, and if anything beyond the walls to the rear had been cleared away, or if it was as much a lair, or a cave as it was a sanctuary. These were the thoughts of only a few seconds, because the old priest had drawn near and held out one gnarled, blue-veined hand in greeting.

  The man was shorter than Father Morrigan, slightly stooped, with gray hair and bright roving eyes that reminded Brian of a bird of prey. His skin was dark – though not quite as dark as the driver’s had been, and there was the hint of a smile in the depths of his eyes, though closely guarded.

  “Father Gonzalez?” Brian asked, taking the offered hand, at first gently in deference to the man’s age, and then in firm appreciation of the older priest’s strength. He might be old, but there was strength in his grip, and it did not shake.

  “Father Morrigan,” the old man spoke softly, but the words carried. “It is . . . an honor to have so much attention from Rome.”

  Father Morrigan searched the man’s face in the dim light, looked for hidden meaning and found nothing.

  “I wish that the circumstances were more personal,” he replied at last. “As you know from the Cardinal’s letter, I’ve come to see Father Prescott.”

  Father Gonzalez nodded. His expression was unreadable, and yet there was something to be read. Father Morrigan felt it in the air that surrounded them. He believed he still felt the gaze of the dark-haired driver, boring into him from the shadows. Then there was this place, the undercurrent of something very old, and very powerful. A well of faith, perhaps? Something more, or less?

  The older priest gazed at him in silence, and then the silence grew uncomfortable. Brian had the impression the man was trying to read something from his expression, or the tone of his voice. It felt like being judged.

  “Father Prescott is out at the field,” Father Gonzalez said at last. “It is nearly time for the . . . miracle.”

  Again Father Morrigan searched the old man’s features. He knew why Father Prescott was here, of course. Everyone in Vatican City knew when Father Prescott was sent out, where, and why. Even Mother Church was not without her fair share of rumor and speculation.

  Brian had particular knowledge, another reason, he reflected, why Cardinal O’Brien might have chosen him for this task. It was Brian who had first received Father Gonzales’ request for assistance. That letter had described their “miracle” in detail, and the memory of the simple, eloquent, and disturbing words still clung to the corners of Brian’s mind. It was one thing to read about such things, he realized – quite another to confront a man who had seen them, and in such a place as this.

  “The Miracle,” as Father Gonzalez had put it, was not the purpose of Father Morrigan’s visit; he was merely a messenger for others. Still, with the sensations the old mission generated seeping into his bones, he felt his heart flutter. It was easier to comprehend, in a moment such as this, what Father Prescott found in the work he performed, what he sought when he left the confines of civilization to trek into the wilderness. It was also easier to fear it.

  Miracles were possible. Everything that Father Morrigan had studied, all that he had been taught, and all that he believed was a lie if that was not true. His mouth suddenly very dry, he asked.

  “Can you take me to him?”

  Father Gonzalez nodded. It was difficult to tell if it was in approval, or resignation. Father Brian’s heart went out to the old man, momentarily. He imagined that not everyone approached this place, or this miracle, with an open, inquiring mind.

  Father Gonzalez turned and headed back into the shadows. Brian followed, watching where he placed his feet and wondering if all the jumping, slithering things he’d seen outside respected the sanctity of the chapel. They reached the rear wall, and a moment later they were swallowed by the gloom of the hallway that led into the greater exterior of the mission.

  In an alcove to the left of the door, the driver of the Jeep sat silently. The shadowed cave had been cut into the adobe wall. Inside were shelves arrayed in a semi-circle, rising one shelf above the next up the wall. These were covered by rows of candles. The man leaned against the wall and watched as the two priests depa
rted, his gaze locked on the center of Father Morrigan’s back. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was pressed into a thin, tight line.

  Then, pushing off of the wall violently, he reached down and grabbed the green duffle bag off the floor where he had dropped it. Lifting the bag, he headed back toward the front of the mission, and out of sight.

  ~ Seven ~

  Brian followed Father Gonzalez down a long, dark corridor. To either side there were doors. There was a small chapel, a larger prayer room, another that was obviously the rectory, and more. Father Morrigan paid little attention. He was focused on the glitter of sunlight at the far end of the hall. There was another door opening out the rear of the mission, and that was where Father Gonzalez led him.

  “Not swallowed, then,” he murmured.

  Father Gonzalez glanced over his shoulder, but Father Morrigan held his silence, feeling a little foolish.

  Moments later they stepped onto a wide porch, crossed this, and followed a circling stone stairway down into the jungle. The stairs ended at the foot of a path that led off between the trees, and Father Gonzalez followed this without hesitation.

  Father Morrigan heard the voice of the jungle once again. Birds cried. Unseen creatures rustled in the leaves overhead. The wind danced through giant leaves and teased the petals of brilliantly colored blossoms. It was a different world entirely from his comfortable corner of The Vatican. He felt this more strongly with each step.

  Then he heard the murmur of voices, rising and falling in a resonant chant, and this, combined with the jungle and the wet heat lent an aura of surreality to the moment. He tried to concentrate on his desk, to see the dark oak walls, the shelves lined with books and the crystal paperweight he used to keep the unruly stack of files in place. He tried to smell the faint incense, and to remember the plush carpeting beneath his feet. The images shredded in the hot breeze.

  Ahead, the path wound through a break in the trees. The sunlight, which had speckled and striped the path as they walked beneath the overhanging canopy of the jungle, shone brilliantly on a small clearing visible through that opening.

  Father Morrigan approached the clearing, and saw a man standing alone in the center. The man was tall and slender, with dark, shoulder-length hair touched with gray at the temples. The brilliant white of a clerical collar showed beneath the dark locks of sweat-dampened hair.

  “Father Prescott,” Morrigan said. He started to step past Father Gonzalez as they reached the clearing, but the old man reached out and grasped his arm, holding him back.

  Father Morrigan turned in surprise and caught the old priest with one finger to his lips. Father Gonzalez inclined his head to the right, and Brian saw them.

  Lining the clearing in ranks three deep, dark haired, dark skinned men and women knelt on the soft floor of the jungle. Their hands were clasped before them, and they chanted a prayer that Brian couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before. The words blended so well with the jungle’s other voices it formed a perfect harmony. Their collective gaze was fixed on Father Prescott, standing before a rough wooden cross.

  From a distance, the priest had seemed to be alone in the clearing, but clearly he was just the axis around which some greater wheel was spinning.

  Father Morrigan’s head buzzed with the heat, the rhythmic chant, and the strange, hallucinogenic sensation of the heat wave warped, brilliantly lit clearing. He shrugged free of Father Gonzalez’s restraining hand and took a step toward the clearing. It was an effort. A palpable force surrounded the place so thick it was like walking through molten butter. He took another step forward and entered the clearing.

  The chanting voices fell to a soft murmur at his intrusion, and then to silence. He stood very still, poised between steps, as if he were a young boy again, playing “Freeze” with the other children on the block, fighting not to be the next to move. He sensed that he had broken some taboo, but he didn’t know what he could do to reverse his actions.

  It was too late to retreat. He took another step, stretched out his hand toward Father Prescott’s back, and stopped. Father Prescott either did not notice him, or ignored him. The priest dropped to his knees before the wooden cross.

  As Father Morrigan stood transfixed by the stares of the natives, silent and still, the first drops of blood splattered across the back of Father Prescott’s robe. Father Morrigan stared as the dark, viscous liquid soaked into the cloth and spread in a growing stain. His lips parted, but no sound escaped, and at that moment, Father Prescott began to pray.

  His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke the words in Latin, clearly and with passion. The syllables rolled rhythmically from his lips, and Father Morrigan found himself mouthing them in unison, though he could not tear his gaze from Father Prescott’s robes.

  He held his hand out again, palm up. Blood splashed across the bare skin, ran down his wrist and beneath his sleeve. He jerked the hand back and stumbled forward a step. Without thinking he raised his face to the clouds, trying to see, to understand, but the blood dripped freely now, splattering his face and stinging his eyes. It plastered his hair to his head and ran down his cheeks in long, slick rivulets. Moving with dreamy slowness, he turned his gaze back to Father Prescott.

  The priest’s arms were raised in an expression of adulation. His voice had risen steadily in volume until it rang through the clearing, running counterpoint to the patter of the rain of blood that spattered his face, his arms, the cross and the clearing.

  The gathered natives, trapped in the moment, dropped their heads to the ground, arms outstretched as they continued to chant. At the entrance to the clearing, Father Gonzalez dropped to his knees. He lowered his head and joined his gruff, cracked voice to Father Prescott’s.

  Brian Morrigan stood like a statue, one arm outstretched and running with blood. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged; for the second time that day, the world whirled about him. He turned away from Father Prescott’s blood soaked form and swept his gaze in a long, slow motion arc across the prone figures of the natives, their hair spattered with the blood that drenched him, their voices sonorous and powerful.

  He turned back the way he’d come and saw Father Gonzalez kneeling by the path. The old priest did not look up; none of them looked up. To them, he might as well not have existed.

  Brian latched onto the image of Father Gonzalez, who prayed alone and separate from the madness, far enough back from the clearing to be free of the blood. Brian swept one arm around to beseech the old priest. Father Gonzalez didn’t see him; he saw only the ground between his knees and he was lost in the prayer and the patter of spilling blood. Brian couldn’t call out or beg for his help, because his voice wouldn’t function, and if it had, it would not have been loud enough.

  The chant echoed through Father Morrigan’s mind. The sound reverberated off the inside of his skull and crashed like discordant symbols. He heard the native’s voices. He heard Father Prescott and Father Gonzalez, but he couldn’t lock his mind onto their words. What he heard was garbled and too slow, like a tape player with one wheel binding and stretching the tape, or a 78rpm record played at 33 1/3.

  He spun in a slow circle, seeing first the cross, and Father Prescott, and then the pathway leading back the way he’d come. He intended to take that path and leave the clearing behind, but his body was stuck in the same odd time-slip as the voices surrounding him. As he turned, his legs tangled. The world gave a sickening lurch, and as he kicked wildly to free himself, he spun face up into the sun, and the blood. He closed his eyes. The words of the prayer pounded to the rhythm of the blood pulsing too hot and too fast through his temples, and he fell back into a well of darkness.

  ~ Eight ~

  Father Morrigan’s eyes fluttered open, but he didn’t move. Not at first. The light was dim; the flicker of an oil lamp winked at him from across the room. That was the first thing his brain processed. He was in a room. He had no idea where. As his senses returned, slowly, he realized he was lying on a cot with a pillow beneath
his head.

  From the corner he heard the soft whirr of an oscillating fan. The cool air blew across his skin, then moved on, then came back, and for a few minutes he was content to concentrate on that sensation. His head ached, and he feared the first motion. It was going to hurt like hell.

  He took a deep breath and turned his head slowly to the side. Not as bad as he’d expected, and when he moved, he heard the brush of fabric. He saw that someone was seated beside the bed, and seconds later he realized that it was Father Prescott.

  The older priest leaned back in a straight-backed wooden chair and regarded Father Morrigan quietly. When Brian stirred, Father Prescott rose from his seat, walked across the room to where a pitcher of water rested on a rough-cut wooden table, and poured a small glass. He returned to the bed and took his seat once more.

  Father Morrigan pushed himself to a sitting position, but the motion was too sudden, and he fell back with a moan. His vision swam, and the darkness rose up, threatening to consume him once more. He laid his arm across his eyes and took several long, deep breaths.

  When he opened his eyes again, Father Prescott offered him the glass of water. This time, Father Morrigan sat up more slowly and leaned against the bed’s heavy wooden headboard. He took the glass gratefully, sipped the water, and then gulped it as he finally registered the parched condition of his tongue and the cracking, dry skin on his lips.

  When the glass was empty, he handed it back slowly, and closed his eyes. The full memory of what had happened in the clearing – up to a point -- swept over him like a tide, and he turned, too quickly this time, to stare into Father Prescott’s eyes.

  “What happened out there?” he asked.

  “You fainted,” Father Prescott replied, his eyes dancing.

  “You know what I mean,” Father Morrigan snapped, instantly regretting the hard shake of his head and the tone of his voice. Technically, Father Prescott was his superior – though they worked in different divisions of the same department.