On the Third Day

by David Niall Wilson

  “Excellency,” Thomas began contritely, “I . . .”

  Father Prescott rose and held up both hands for silence. His features were a mask of controlled emotion, as smooth and unfathomable as the slick surface of the ocean before a storm. Only his eyes gave away his intensity, and they flashed dangerously between frustration and anger.

  “This is not the time to air personal grievances,” he said softly. “Father Thomas, I thank you for your time. You may go, for now. I will be speaking to you again soon – probably several times. I’ll also be speaking with members of the parish, and the deacons, if they are available. You may go with the assurance that, whatever they may be, and however this may work out – we will find your answers for you.”

  Father Thomas rose and met Father Prescott’s gaze. Both of them ignored the Bishop, for the moment. The screen behind Father Prescott was silent, and pushed aside as well. Something passed between them, some understanding beyond words, and a modicum of the tension in Father Thomas’ shoulders eased. His shoulders straightened, just a bit, and he nodded slowly.

  He turned without another word and bowed to the Bishop. Without waiting for acknowledgement, he spun again and walked steadily to the door. He slipped through and into the outer room, where the pool of light from Martha Shengle’s desk lamp still leaked in, lurking and waiting like a furtive spy tucked around the corner. She looked up as Father Thomas entered the outer office, and frowned slightly as he closed the door to the Bishop’s office behind him with a loud, echoing Click!

  * * *

  On the other side of the door, Father Prescott’s temper finally broke. He turned on the Bishop with a scowl, and stared hard into the older man’s impassive, almost petulant smirk.

  “Tony,” Father Prescott said, skipping all formalities, “I am going to have to ask you, respectfully, to allow me to conduct my own investigation here, and to do so on my own terms.”

  The Bishop’s features darken, matching Father Prescott’s scowl.

  “But surely, Donovan, you can . . .”

  Father Prescott raised a hand, palm facing the Bishop and lowered his gaze to the floor. His lips pressed tightly together for a moment, and he didn’t lift his gaze until the room was deadly silent.

  “I already know how you feel on the subject of Father Thomas and the Stigmata,” he said in a quiet level voice. “You made your own observations and conclusions very clear when you called Cardinal O’Brien. I have no problem with you holding your opinions, Tony, but you have to understand something from the start here.

  “I haven’t been sent here to vindicate your opinions. I am here because I have special training, and special dispensation, to seek the truth in matters that fall outside the realm of day-to-day worship. I am here to find the truth, Tony – you have to believe that if we are to work together at all.”

  Bishop Michaels rose slowly and turned away. He walked to the window and slowly worked the mechanism that opened his blinds. Bright, late afternoon sunlight striped his features, and the glow seeped around his form, giving him a silvery lining from where Donovan stood, waiting. Both men remained silent for a time, and then Michaels spoke.

  His voice was low, controlled and modulated. It was the voice of authority and experience, of years on the pulpit and in the offices of great men and women. It was the voice of a man who knew the power of speech and wielded it like a weapon.

  “I have known Cardinal O’Brien – Sean – for a very long time, Donovan. He and I attended seminary together. We have spent more hours talking late into the night than I would guess most men have spent with their own families. For whatever reason, and to whatever end it comes, Sean O’Brien recommended you and sent you to me.

  “You are correct in your assessment of my opinion. I have not been obtuse, and I apologize if I have been overly zealous in the presentation of my feelings. I have to say, I don’t see how any sane man could feel differently about this mess than I do.”

  “Faith,” Father Prescott said simply.

  Michaels grew still for a moment, then breathed easily again and smiled wanly. He glanced over his shoulder at Donovan’s earnest face, and then returned his gaze to whatever it was that had captured his attention beyond the window.

  “It was a rhetorical question, but your point is taken.

  “I have been a part of this church for so long that the thought of the real world surrounding us -- and possibly of the heavenly world awaiting us -- have grown dim for me. Things are black and white, and I am comfortable with that. That is one of the dangers of allowing one’s self to be promoted too far in any endeavor. The reality of a thing is at its roots, and it has been a long time since I have spent any time with the roots of my own faith.”

  Leaving the blinds slitted, Bishop Michaels turned and walked slowly back to his seat. He dropped into the comfortable leather with a deep, heavy sigh, and he glanced over at Donovan with an expression half of resignation, and half of a barely sparked curiosity.

  “Find our answers, Father Prescott. By whatever means necessary, follow this thing through to its end. I won’t stand in your way, and any resources or aid I can provide are yours for the asking.”

  Father Prescott nodded solemnly and turned away in silence.

  As he watched the younger man leaving, the Bishop called out to him. Father Prescott hesitated, but did not turn back.

  “Let’s hope, Donovan,” the Bishop said softly, “that it is not only my own mind that is made up from the start. Let’s hope that the desire for a miracle doesn’t override the need for caution.”

  Father Prescott slipped out through the foyer and was gone. Bishop Michaels rose, closed the door once more, and returned to his desk. He reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out the flask and one of the tumblers. He poured a generous splash of amber liquid into the glass, and sat back, sipping slowly. The light slanting through the blinds shattered in the brandy and flickered like amber fire.

  ~ Twelve ~

  It was early morning when Father Prescott arrived at the Cathedral of San Marcos. He drove up the coast at a leisurely pace, taking in the beauty of the dawn-washed sky and the waves crashing on stone and beach below. He’d been up since before dawn, and the sun was only just tipping the horizon with the orange and gold promise of sunrise. It had been many years since he’d been able to sleep late; his dreams were often intense, and the only way to avoid them was not to dream them.

  Winding his way up the road toward the cathedral he reflected on how very small this burden was. He thought of the pained expression on Father Thomas’ face, and the all-too familiar bile he’d heard in the Bishop’s voice. He tried to imagine standing at the altar, blood dripping down his forehead and his arms held by unseen forces to either side. He shivered, and pressed a little harder on the gas.

  The rental was new and sleek. It hugged the curves of the road tightly, transferring a sense of its power through Donovan’s hands and arms as if daring him to more speed. He smiled, slowed, and finally made the turn into the parking lot below the cathedral. It was a beautiful, imposing sight, and as he parked and turned, he caught the first sunlight of the day washing around the white stone as if placed as a backlight just for his pleasure. It was a magical moment, and he wondered how many times Father Thomas had seen it this way, living as he did in the rear of the building.

  Donovan climbed the stone steps slowly, turning now and then to catch a glimpse of the rocks and the beach below, and the blue sky over the water. There was a low hanging fog, but he knew it would burn away before noon. It was cool, and a breeze blew in from the ocean, but Father Prescott felt no chill.

  At the top of the stairs he tried the main doors, and found them unlocked. He smiled. It was what he’d expected. Father Thomas wouldn’t bar the doors to anyone. He doubted if they were ever locked. The location was secluded enough to make burglars less likely, and if a member of the parish needed to commune with God in private, he could enter the Cathedral at any time.

  There were few li
ghts on inside. Warm, golden light rose from lamps built into elaborate sconces on the walls, and sunlight teased the side windows, not high enough yet to show on all sides of the church. If there had been a window in the rear, it would have glowed, but instead a huge, bas-relief of the crucifixion hung there, far above the altar.

  The Christ’s face was a mask of pain; its great, sad eyes were raised to the heavens. Though that pain-wracked visage was aimed away from him, Father Prescott felt the weight of it as he stepped forward into the small cathedral. The door swung silently shut behind him.

  Donovan dipped his fingers into the basin of Holy Water, crossed himself, and bowed his head. He felt the weight of the Christ’s eyes on his shoulders, and he stood very still.

  The silence was deep. In the distance, Donovan heard a soft, rhythmic scrape. He turned to his right and wound his way around the right side of the cathedral toward the rectory in back. Shadows leaked off the walls and spilled across the floor. He thought of the smaller church in the jungles of Peru. Here the rows of candles stretched up one wall behind a small wooden barrier. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of candles, and unlike those in the jungle, these were set on terraced shelves that stretched back toward the wall, not hidden away in an alcove.

  On impulse, he stepped to the rail, knelt, and bowed his head. He pictured the clearing, and the low, squat church cut into the edge of the forest. He pictured the old wooden cross and the rows of eyes, staring at him and through him, searching for answers he’d been unable to provide. He thought of Father Gonzalez. Father Prescott prayed silently for them all, asking God to grant them answers and to give them peace.

  Donovan rose, lifted one of the lit candles, and touched the flame to another. He stared into the flickering light for a moment, searched the hot gold depths until the wax formed a pool, and the edge of that pool melted. As the candle burned, he turned away and cleared his mind.

  It was a little brighter in the cathedral, and he realized he’d stood there longer than he intended. The rhythmic scraping sound he’d heard earlier was nearer. He scanned the shadows and made out the thin, stooped form of an old man. The man had a broom and he very carefully ran the bristles along the edge of the wall, sweeping slowly and meticulously. Donovan watched for a moment, then stepped forward and smiled.

  The old man glanced up, as if seeing Donovan for the first time. In that glance, Donovan saw the man’s eyes lock onto the dark robes and the white collar. Those eyes widened, and his mouth clamped tight. Without a word, he returned to his sweeping as if he’d never seen Father Prescott at all. Donovan stopped a few feet away. His hand, which he’d been ready to offer, dropped back to his side.

  “Excuse me,” Father Prescott said, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want to break the silence with anything too harsh.

  The old man didn’t meet his gaze, but did stop sweeping for the moment. Donovan pressed on.

  “I’m trying to find Father Thomas,” he said. “I know it’s early, but I’ve been told he’s an habitual early riser. Can you tell me where to find him?”

  It seemed the old man would ignore him completely and continue sweeping. Father Prescott stood patiently, waiting.

  “I’m Father Prescott,” he said.

  Finally, the old man glanced up. “Harry Seymour, Father” he said. “You’ll find Father Thomas in the rectory. He won’t be out here until later in the day.”

  Father Prescott nodded and started to turn toward the rear of the church. Then he stopped.

  “Thank you, Harry,” he said.

  Harry nodded sullenly. “My pleasure,” he said.

  As Donovan started to walk away the man added, “Father.”

  Donovan hesitated, and then walked on. He wasn’t sure what to make of the old caretaker, but there would be plenty of time to figure it out once he’d made his initial contact with Father Thomas. That was why he’d come, of course. It was up to him to take the first step, and to show that the attitude of the Bishop, and that of the Vatican were not necessarily one and the same.

  Father Prescott skirted the rail that fronted the altar and walked around the right side. In back he saw a large, dark opening, and he headed straight for it. A moment later he stepped into a long hallway stretching back into shadows. At the far end he saw two squares of light. One was so bright it was difficult to look straight at it. This was an outside window, probably the rear door of the Cathedral. To the right of this, and almost invisible in the blinding flash of sunlight, another door stood open. The pale, milky-white rectangle that was its window was framed in dark, stained oak.

  Father Prescott heard muffled voices. He hesitated. He didn’t want to interrupt Father Thomas if he was busy with one of the members of the parish. Then he heard footsteps, and he stopped to wait. Moments later a portly figure stepped through the open door at the end of the corridor and turned toward him. The man stopped dead at the sight of Father Prescott, obviously flustered. He fumbled with something in his hands, jammed hands and whatever they held into the pocket of a rumpled sport coat, and then stood, staring down the hallway in consternation.

  Father Prescott stepped forward. He couldn’t make out details because of the glare, but as he approached he saw that the man he confronted was in his mid to late thirties, with beady, glaring eyes and a flushed face. His skin had an unhealthy pallor, odd in the sunny climate.

  The man stared a moment longer, then lowered his head and plowed down the corridor, nearly knocking Donovan off his feet in the passing. There were no words exchanged, and a moment later the man disappeared out into the cathedral.

  Father Prescott blinked his eyes, closed them, and waited for his pupils to return to normal and his sight to clear. He shook his head, held his hand to his eyes like a visor, and turned toward the door once again. There were no more sounds. Donovan stopped and knocked on the heavy wood frame, glancing into the office beyond.

  This room had none of the splendor of Bishop Michaels’ office. The desk was old and worn, but still polished and clean. The shelves held books of all sizes and shapes, some with papers sticking out between their spines. There was a small table with two chairs by a back window, and the carpet appeared to be at least as old as the desk, though still thick and soft to the tread.

  Father Thomas sat behind the desk, completely relaxed in an old, worn leather chair. He had a book open on the desk in front of him and he looked up from his reading when Father Prescott entered.

  He smiled bleakly, and Donovan smiled in return.

  “Good morning, Father Thomas,” he said, extending his hand. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important?”

  Father Thomas rose slowly and extended his hand. He looked as if he’d had too little sleep. There were dark pits beneath his eyes, and what had been small, insignificant wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were deeper and more pronounced. His grip was strong, though, and his smile gained strength at the contact.

  “I’d like to say you caught me at a good moment, Father Prescott,” he said, “but most of my moments lately have been bad ones. I’m afraid that I upset Bishop Michaels at our little meeting. I can’t say I’m not more than a little upset myself.”

  Father Prescott nodded sympathetically. “He has some strong beliefs. I’m Donovan, by the way. No need for formality, unless you prefer it?”

  “Quentin,” Father Thomas said quickly. “My mother thought it was a ‘dashing’ name. I think she was more than a little disappointed when I heard the call to the Priesthood rather than that of Hollywood.”

  Father Prescott gestured at one of the chairs across the desk from Father Thomas. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Father Thomas replied.

  Father Prescott sat down and leaned back. He craned his neck and stared up at the beams of the high ceiling for a moment in silence. Finally he met Father Thomas’ gaze and spoke.

  “Bishop Michaels is a man of small imagination, Quentin. It isn’t that he wishes you ill, he just wants you to be quiet. He doesn’t want so
mething so grand as a miracle to intrude on his life. He wants nothing, in fact, to intrude upon his life at all. There are many such men in the priesthood.”

  Father Thomas nodded thoughtfully. “He isn’t the first I’ve met with that attitude. How about you, Donovan? How do you feel about miracles?”

  Donovan hesitated, and then answered.

  “I have been searching for a miracle all my life, Quentin. It consumes me. That is why I’m here -- why I perform the function that I do, rather than moving up in the Church. I’ve been searching a very long time.”

  He hesitated, and then grinned.

  “Would it surprise you to know that if I had followed a normal path in the church, I would already be Bishop Michaels’ superior?”

  Father Thomas stared at him, incredulous. He thought about the question for a while, and then shook his head.

  “I’d have to doubt whether you were serious,” he said at last. “You certainly can’t be his age.”

  “If age were the only factor,” Donovan said, “you would be correct. You know that it is not, though, if you think about it. Bishop Michaels was called to the priesthood as a young adult. I began my own training at age twelve. I knew from the very first time that I responded to the litany that I would be called. I never wanted anything else, and I have never regretted my choice.”

  Father Thomas stared hard at the older priest. His depression had vanished, and bright curiosity burned in his eyes.

  “This function you serve in the church,” Father Thomas asked softly. “What exactly is it? What is more important to you than your own Diocese? “

  “You are not alone, Quentin,” Donovan replied. “There are a thousand miracles reported to the Vatican every day – more on and near holidays. Most of them are weeded out immediately, either patently ridiculous, mocking, or obviously untrue. But there are others – enough to keep myself and half dozen others busy full time investigating and reporting back to Rome.”