On the Third Day

by David Niall Wilson

  “The blood – that blood. It was everywhere. I . . .”

  Father Prescott watched the younger priest calmly as he sputtered, lost the words he’d intended to speak, and covered that loss by attempting to sip from the empty water glass in his hand. Finally, Father Prescott spoke.

  “I don’t know what happened, Brian,” he said. “That’s why I’m here, you know, to find out? I wouldn’t have had you come on us like that without warning, but to be honest, I didn’t even know you were there. I got the wire saying you were inbound, but I didn’t expect you for hours.”

  Brian eased back against the headboard, sipped his water, and stared at the wall across from him. His eyes had taken on a faraway, glazed expression.

  “Brian,” Father Prescott said, “why are you here? I got the wire, but I’ll be honest. I find it hard to believe that after all of these years, Rome doesn’t trust my judgment. And there are others in the department, seasoned to such situations . . . ”

  Father Prescott’s voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

  Brian’s eyes refocused and opened wide in sudden alarm.

  “Oh,” he said, “It’s nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. I…”

  Father Prescott watched Brian silently, lifting one eyebrow, but saying nothing. He was obviously amused at the younger priest’s embarrassment, and in no hurry to relieve it. Father Morrigan squirmed and held out the water glass. Father Prescott refilled it and handed it back in silence.

  “It’s a new assignment,” Father Morrigan burst out at last. “Top priority. This one comes straight from Cardinal O’Brien.”

  Father Prescott’s smile faded. He was not ready for a new assignment. He had to find answers here – now. His mind drifted, just for a moment, to the clearing, and the soft, warm spatter of blood across his face. He saw their eyes, all those dark eyes, watching him – and waiting.

  “He said you wouldn’t want to come,” Father Morrigan went on, seeing the shift in his companion’s features. “He told me this was important, and that I was to give you something.”

  Father Prescott remained silent, waiting. He had a lot to say, but he knew that these rooms, and this young priest, were the wrong targets for his words. It would do no good to shoot the messenger, and what he wanted more than anything at that moment was for this meeting to be done so that he could find a telephone and rant at the man behind the message in a more personal manner.

  Father Morrigan glanced around and nearly spilled his water trying to peer over the edge of the bed and into the corners of the room. He blushed again, and Father Prescott placed a hand on the younger man’s arm to calm him.

  Father Morrigan met his gaze gratefully, and then asked, “Do you have my things? My briefcase?”

  Father Prescott leaned down. The duffle bag and the briefcase both rested against the foot of the bed, out of Father Morrigan’s sight. Father Prescott lifted the leather case and placed it gently across Father Morrigan’s lap.

  Still flustered, and more than a little weak and dizzy, Brian fumbled open the clasps and lifted the lid. He rummaged around inside for a few moments, pulling out files and pushing things aside, one by one, until he drew forth a long, slender chain. From the bottom, a leather pouch dangled. He turned, holding this up to Father Prescott with a trembling hand.

  “He said that I should give you this,” the young priest said. “He said that you’d understand.”

  Father Prescott caught sight of the pouch, and he froze. His features went momentarily slack, and he slumped back heavily in his chair.

  Father Morrigan saw the reaction the object in his hand had caused and leaned forward in alarm

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Father Prescott didn’t hear him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, as memories shifted up from the depths to cloud the moment. They were so clear that he could smell the polished wood and rich leather of Cardinal O’Brien’s office.

  Across the desk, Cardinal O’Brien sat, holding the slender chain, the pouch dangling from it and spinning in a lazy circle over the heavy blotter. Father Prescott watched, mesmerized. He reached out a hand and gently stroked the soft pouch in wonder.

  “What is it?” he asked?

  “This,” Cardinal O’Brien answered, “Don, is the one thing I’ve never been able to explain. This is the one miracle, in all my time in the Church that I cannot say – is not. Rather, this is a reminder of that miracle. I keep it close to me, and when there are moments of doubt, I hold it – and I dream about it.”

  Father Prescott held the pouch in his hand gently, entranced. He wanted to open it, but to do so without O’Brien’s bidding was unthinkable.

  “What is it?” he repeated.

  “One day,” O’Brien replied, “perhaps you will answer that question for me. One day after you have found your own miracles.”

  The Cardinal withdrew the chain, slipped the pouch into the folds of his vestments, and reached out with his free hand. He tapped Father Darren Prescott directly over his heart, and said.

  “When you have found your own miracles, and resolved them . . . here.”

  The memory dissolved. Father Prescott shook his head and sat up straight. The small room in the middle of the Peruvian jungle, and Father Morrigan’s confused, concerned face, slid back into focus.

  Father Prescott reached out and stroked the pouch. He cupped his hand and Father Morrigan dropped the bag into it, letting the chain pour over Donovan’s fingers like cool liquid. Those fingers were white with tension where he touched the bag; though he held it so tenderly it might have been a delicate eggshell. His hand trembled.

  As the last of the chain slipped through his fingers, Father Morrigan spoke softly.

  “You have to go to California.”

  Father Prescott didn’t meet the younger priest’s gaze, but he nodded. He rose slowly from his chair. He stared at the leather pouch for a long time in silence, and then he turned to Father Morrigan.

  “We’ll fly out tomorrow.”

  Father Prescott stood then, and stepped around the bed. Without another word he slipped out the door, leaving Father Morrigan to the silence, and his confusion.

  ~ Nine ~

  The early morning sun rose slowly, winding its way in rose-fingers among the vines and foliage and glistening through heavy drops of dew. The old wooden cross stood in shadow, dark and stark against the green grass of the field. It had rained overnight, as Father Morrigan had been told it rained nearly every night, and the grass glistened; all sign of what had transpired the previous day had disappeared. The silence lent an air of unreality to the moment and the young priest feared to break it.

  Father Prescott and Father Gonzalez stood, side-by-side, a few feet closer to the cross. Brian didn’t want to intrude, but he was close enough to hear the words they spoke, and was grateful for the inclusion. There were none of the longhaired, dark-skinned parishioners present, but there was a hum of – something – in the air, something that reminded Father Morrigan of the chanting voices, and the dark, staring eyes; something that reminded him of the rain-patter of blood and Father Prescott’s voice speaking the ancient Latin prayers. Somehow he knew that they were out there, or some of them were, and that nothing transpired in this clearing without their knowledge.

  Again, Brian Morrigan wondered why he was there. He knew the real-world roots of it, the instruction from Cardinal O’Brien, the urgency of the need in California, whatever it might be, but the question rose from deeper wells than these. They were very fundamental questions of belief, and outright terror. It is one thing to sit in a classroom, or a great cathedral, and to hear of miracles. The stories of demons being cast forth, and blind men gaining sight were comforting in their own way, but they had the added quality of not intruding themselves into every day life. Father Morrigan’s faith was a comfortable room he’d constructed with an easy chair and soothing music, and what he’d witnessed the day before in the middle of a Peruvian jun
gle, had shaken his world, and his perception of faith, to their roots.

  He was sure of two things, and they ate at him like hungry tapeworms, sapping his strength and his resolve. The first was that, like it or not, he had come to a new level of belief. That level included things like raining blood, and if this one, incredible, impossible thing were true, then what of the others? What of demons who might claw their way into his soul? What of Satan, and all the fallen minions of Hell itself? What good was his armchair faith against such primal, powerful truths?

  The answer didn’t sit well with him. The other truth that had come to him was even more disconcerting and frightening than the first. It was simply this: He now had an idea that he might have chosen poorly in deciding to enter the priesthood. He believed he would have been just as at home in a library, or a museum, cataloguing the facts of civilizations long crumbled to dust and recommending the literature of the great masters to the next generation of scholars. The difference was that those artifacts and books wouldn’t have driven him to nightmares. Not like the dreams he’d suffered the night before. They wouldn’t have caused him to doubt the veracity of a lifetime of truth gathering.

  So he stood, lost in thought and listened absently as the two older priests said their farewells. In the end, he knew, there was no hope of going back. He knew what he knew, had seen what he had seen, and until answers were forthcoming, if they ever were, he would have the images of blood and faith whirling about in his mind.

  “Will you return?” Father Gonzalez asked softly. There wasn’t much hope in his voice, and Father Morrigan came to another realization. His own fears were selfish in nature to the point he’d not even considered the old man’s position. “The cycle is nearly complete for this year, but it will come again in eight months.”

  “I don’t know,” Father Prescott answered. He hesitated, and then said. “I don’t know what else I can learn here.”

  They stood in silence for a little while longer. Father Morrigan saw Father Gonzalez’s shoulders sag a few inches, as if under a heavy burden. Something went out of the man then, something vital, and Father Morrigan felt a pang of regret. When Father Prescott, or one of his associates, was sent out into the world, their mission was to handle the questions and faith of others, and those others came into it with certain expectations of their own.

  “My report will be filed with the Vatican,” Father Prescott went on. “There are some very wise men there, Ignacio. I have samples, and evidence. I have the testimony of many of your parishioners. Perhaps there will be an answer that makes sense.”

  The old priest turned and glanced back past Father Morrigan, down the trail toward the mission. The voices of his parish rose gently, and that sound, haunting and melodic, floated through the trees to the clearing on the morning breeze. When he turned back, his expression was of great longing, and he spoke in a husky, far-away voice that did not seem directed so much at Father Prescott, as at the universe itself.

  “They have waited a long time,” he said at last, nodding toward the mission, “to hear – something. They need to hear something that makes it real for them, something from The Church, or something that takes it all away from us so that we can forget.”

  Father Prescott stepped closer and laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  “They are fortunate to have you, my friend,” he said softly. “The moment I have a verdict from the Vatican, I will be in touch. You know that I will. And if I am free to do so, I will come again.”

  The old priest nodded, but he didn’t really seem to be paying attention. He stared into the empty clearing, at the dark-stained cross with an expression that seemed to say it was his own, and he knew now that he must bear it, as his savior had done, until another was chosen to take it up.

  Father Morrigan could stand the silence no longer, and he stepped forward, touching Father Prescott’s arm.

  “But,” he said, trying to form the question so that he would not sound as nervous, or as naïve, as he suddenly felt, “what do you think?” he asked. “Is it a miracle, or…?”

  At that precise moment, before Father Prescott could form an answer to the question, a huge flock of butterflies burst from the jungle in a spray of color. They fluttered and melded, their colors sliding through every hue in the rainbow and back again in a kaleidoscope of life and beauty, glittering in the sunlight.

  “There’s your miracle, Brian,” Father Prescott said, staring into the sky. “Never forget it.”

  The three priests turned slowly and trudged back down the trail to the mission as the sun rose fully in the sky at their backs, pressing them on in silence.

  ~ Ten ~

  Father Prescott and Father Morrigan sat on opposite sides of a smooth, Formica topped table. Their seats were deep, comfortable leather, very different from the rough furnishings of the Mission in Peru.

  Father Prescott had a small stack of file folders beside him. He held a single page letter in his hand with the seal of Cardinal Sean O’Brien affixed to the bottom. On the table, beside the file folders, sat a thin laptop, its screen flipped open. The display showed a slowly rotating cross – a screensaver.

  The letter was short and to the point.

  “Don, this one may be big, and there are complications. I know how important the work you are doing in Peru is to you – and to those who worship there. I will send a separate letter of apology to Father Gonzalez; he and his mission will not be forgotten. I need you on this one, though.

  One of our priests out in California, a Father Quentin Thomas, reported to his Bishop, Father Anthony Michaels, that he received the Stigmata during Easter Mass. Bishop Michaels is, let us say, less than receptive to news of this sort. What I’ve sent you will show you the outcome of the Bishop’s private investigation. I have also included several interviews conducted with members of the parish, and all other information we’ve been able to gather on what happened this past April.

  I don’t expect the Bishop will make it any easier for you, but I trust your judgment and discretion. Call me when you reach San Valencez.

  Cardinal Tony O’Brien.

  P.S. Donovan, I’ve entrusted the delivery of this to Brian Morrigan because I believe he needs to get out into the world. I couldn’t imagine a better guide for his first outing.”

  Father Prescott folded the letter carefully and placed it in the top folder. He glanced at the laptop, then at Father Morrigan.

  “Did you make that, Brian?” he asked. He pointed at the whirling cross on the screen.

  Brian laughed.

  “No. I found it on the Vatican web site. Can you believe it?”

  Donovan shook his head. He couldn’t. He couldn’t imagine a priest, or a monk, or whomever it had been with enough time on their hands to sit around and create such a thing as a Vatican screensaver. He’d heard reports of other “innovations”. On-line confessionals. Mass held electronically. Already you could search the web and find any ritual you might require, or find the history of each saint, along with heretical versions, fictionalized accounts, and apocryphal texts.

  Father Prescott stared at the computer but made no move to touch it.

  “You need to see the video,” Brian said softly. “It came to Rome on a VHS tape, but we converted it and saved it on a DVD. It was easier to copy that way, and much lighter to transport.”

  Donovan nodded distractedly.

  “I put the files together myself,” Brian continued. “The interviews are organized chronologically in the order they were conducted. I thought about alphabetizing, but…”

  Father Prescott glanced up and caught the younger priest’s eye. Brian fell silent.

  Father Prescott closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and reached for the laptop. He turned it so the screen faced him. He tapped a key, and the screensaver faded, showing a black background with several icons along the left side.

  “I set it up so all you have to do is click the icon marked ‘Prescott’ on the desktop,” Brian said. He sp
oke tentatively, as if he were afraid anything he said might provoke his companion.

  Donovan nodded.

  “Here,” Brian added. “These will help.”

  Brian handed over a small pair of headphones with soft foam covers for the ears. Father Prescott took them and popped the jack on the end of the cord into the proper outlet on the laptop. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the computer, just uncertain the part it should play in The Church.

  Father Morrigan leaned forward, as if he might say something more, then leaned back. Father Prescott brushed his hair back from his ears and settled the headphones into place. He leaned back, slid his finger lightly over the touch pad on the laptop’s keyboard, and punched down to click on the icon that bore his name.

  A window opened on the screen, displaying a movie-theater style log and curtain. There was a whirring sound as the DVD reader spun up, and then it began.

  The screen flickered and filled with white snow and hissing static, and then went black for a few seconds. Next a bright, colorful image of the altar of San Marcos by the Sea came into full view. The sound quality was tinny, but the priest, who Donovan assumed to be Father Thomas, had a deep, powerful voice that filled the speakers of the headphone and welcomed Father Prescott, along with the congregation, to the service. A moment later he began to celebrate Easter Mass.

  Father Thomas’s voice was bright and strong. There was emotion behind the words, and a bright glitter in his eye. He exuded what drama instructors call “presence” and those gathered before him moved in time with each motion of his arms and bobbed their heads with the rhythm and cadence of his speech.

  The lights were not bright, but they were all trained on Father Thomas, and it blinded him somewhat, causing him to focus most sharply on those in the rows closest to him. Donovan watched, a frown creasing his brow as he saw that they were moving. The front section of the congregation swayed in a sinuous, side-to-side rhythm that seemed to grip Father Thomas’ words in tight coils and squeeze them out in ripples that ran through the congregation like ocean waves.