It was a little dingier than Donovan remembered. Without the words appearing in the soil, the statue of a long-dead martyr seemed to have lost most of its drawing power. There were none of the faithful gathered and waiting to see if the ‘miracle’ would return. It was a quiet square in a village where half the inhabitants were settling in for the evening and the other half were preparing for the evening. Somewhere in the middle the statue waited quietly, as if it had expected them all along.
They crossed the square and Donovan stood for a long time staring at the statue. He knew it well enough; it had haunted his dreams, but he wanted this memory to supercede the others. When he closed his eyes at night, if he were to be visited by the spirit of the martyr, Peter, he wanted this to be that visitation, and not his previous visit – or the moments in the Cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea.
Donovan reached up and gripped the chain that had dangled about his neck since the day that Father Morrigan had tracked him down in the middle of the Peruvian jungle and delivered it. He drew it from beneath his collar and held the small bag in his hand, studying it carefully. He heard the Cardinal’s words, so long ago. He traced a finger over the letters on the small pouch. SPM. He hadn’t understood, at first, what they stood for. Now he did, and he thought that he knew why the relic had come into his possession – a reason beyond even the wisdom of the man who’d given it to him.
SPM. Saint Peter, Martyr.
Donovan knelt in the dry soil of the square, directly in front of the statue. Father Morrigan, uncertain what else to do, knelt beside him. Donovan lowered his head, and he prayed. He prayed for the parish in Peru and their bloody cross. He prayed for the image of the virgin on the wall of the old barn, and he prayed for Peter, forgiving of his enemies, even unto death. He held the small pouch reverently in his hands, and he did not look up until the soft crunch of earth to the opposite side of where Father Morrigan knelt told him he was not alone.
“You’ve returned,” Father Fernando said. His voice held no emotion.
Donovan opened his eyes and met that dark stare. He didn’t know what Father Fernando saw when he returned the gaze. He didn’t know how he was thought of or remembered to the other man. He knew what he had to do.
“I wasn’t the only priest to visit here from Rome,” Donovan said at last. “I don’t know when, or why, but another came before, and a long time ago – before he sent me here to investigate, he gave me this.”
He held up the small pouch with its chain dangling over his palms, spilling toward the earth beneath them. Father Fernando glanced at the pouch curiously, but showed no recognition.
Father Prescott didn’t hesitate. He took the small pouch gently in the fingers of both hands and worked at the seal. It took only moments to open, and only when he had done so did Donovan speak again.
The villagers had begun to gather at their backs now, inching closer, but remaining silent. They didn’t know what was happening, or why, but they knew that it was important.
Father Prescott upended the small pouch. A trickle of dry soil, fine as dust after being pressed into the pouch for so long, poured from the lip and cascaded over the ground at the base of the statue. There was no breeze, and Father Prescott held very still, watching as the dust struck the earth and spread in a small cloud.
When the pouch was empty, he hung the chain about his neck once more. Then, without a word, he dropped his head once again, and began to pray. He didn’t pray in words, or fine phrases. Instead, he allowed himself to grow very calm. He cleared all thought from his mind; all the files and folders, questions and half-answers of a lifetime slipped down and out of him, into the soil. Like the dust from the small pouch, he emptied himself of all he’d carried for so long.
He had no idea how long he remained that way. He didn’t open his eyes again until he heard two sharp intakes of breath. One was Father Morrigan, and the other Father Fernando. They didn’t speak. They made no attempt to rouse him from his prayer, but he opened his eyes.
The earth at the base of the statue was bathed in a strange light, and he smiled. He did not wait to see the words form. He didn’t look at Father Fernando, or at Brian, and he lowered his head as he passed through the gathered ranks of the villagers. He knew what they would see. He knew he had guessed correctly, and that was enough.
Four words passed the lips of a hundred men, women and children that night, read from the dust at the feet of a half-forgotten saint. They echoed on the faint evening breeze and drowned out his footsteps and he walked off into the night.
On the Third Day Page 23
