Golgotha Falls

by Frank De Felitta

  “Your Grace,” whispered Father Malcolm, kissing the ring on the right hand. “Don’t be angry with me. For what I have seen will surely rock the Church!”

  Bishop Lyons, discomfited, stirred in the chair. After a while, he withdrew his right hand and with it signaled the priest and the Jesuit to leave.

  “Malcolm, Malcolm . . .” the bishop gently scolded. “Impetuous and rash as ever.”

  Wearily, Bishop Lyons pointed to an adjacent curved-arm chair. Father Malcolm, white-faced with fear, sat on its edge.

  “I have returned from Golgotha Falls, Your Grace.”

  The bishop was silent. He turned back to the correspondence on the desk, studied the pages, and, thinking through the intricacies, furrowed his massive brow and rubbed his forehead. He looked up, almost as though surprised to see Father Malcolm still there.

  “And is that sufficient cause to justify this breach of protocol?”

  Father Malcolm swallowed. Against the bishop’s craggy, indomitable face, all thought flew out like crazed sparrows, leaving a hollow shell, an empty, confused Jesuit who had lost his moorings.

  “Well?”

  “I have felt the presence of Christ,” Father Malcolm said weakly.

  Bishop Lyons sank back into the antique chair, regarding Father Malcolm as though the Jesuit were insane.

  “You must always feel the presence of Christ,” the bishop said.

  Father Malcolm leaned forward.

  “In my body, Your Grace. At the conclusion of the exorcism. At the most solemn moment of the mass.”

  A wave of annoyance passed over Bishop Lyons’ face.

  “Father Malcolm, this is not the sort of issue to bring before me in this manner.”

  “And exterior to myself.”

  Distantly, the heavy chimes of an old clock bonged. Father Malcolm sensed the Jesuit in front of the door, listening at the desk. Perhaps the elderly priest was there, too. Father Malcolm felt chasms opening all around him.

  Bishop Lyons looked back at the correspondence, tried to focus on its subtle contradictions and insinuations, but it was impossible now. Angrily, he swept it away and turned to the Jesuit.

  “I performed the exorcism, as you instructed—” Father Malcolm stated.

  “Yes.”

  “And it was successful.”

  “Good.”

  “But during the climax, when the issue was truly joined, and there were the most terrifying hallucinations—of a sexual nature—”

  The bishop’s eyes narrowed.

  “As I commingled the consecrated Host in the chalice, there came into me a burning wind. It invaded me, Your Grace, inhabited me, and I lost consciousness.”

  “I see.”

  “And when I came to, the altar lamp was self-ignited.”

  “Obviously, in your disturbance you forgot having lighted it.”

  “No.”

  Bishop Lyons smiled, frustrated. “Good heavens, Father Malcolm. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I have studied the tapes.”

  Bishop Lyons rose and closed the door of the bedchamber more firmly. He padded back on soft slippers. Then he sat beside Father Malcolm and leaned forward, so closely that the Jesuit smelled the delicate cologne on the burly neck.

  “What tapes do you refer to, Father?”

  Father Malcolm felt his face go hot. He wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief and carefully folded it.

  “Some videotapes have been made,” he said.

  “Of an exorcism? I instructed you to use discretion.”

  “I needed assistance. They were already there.”

  “Who was there?”

  Father Malcolm carefully put the handkerchief back into the pocket of his worn black coat. He was suddenly afraid.

  “Scientists, Your Grace. From Harvard.”

  Bishop Lyons visibly relaxed.

  “We have excellent relations with Harvard. Including the telecommunications department.”

  Father Malcolm shook his head vigorously.

  “Parapsychologists,” he forced out.

  Bishop Lyons regarded him as though an irreparable division existed now between them.

  “They monitored the exorcism, Your Grace.”

  Bishop Lyons looked down at his own slippers, leaning on the arm rests, shaking his massive head.

  “Father, I should never have received this kind of news from you.”

  “I tried to restrain them.”

  “But you let them photograph everything!” the bishop said angrily.

  Father Malcolm had no response. Bishop Lyons rubbed his neck, massaging tired muscles, and grimaced.

  “Every priest, every church, is a door that Satan tries to enter,” the bishop said. “And you have opened the door to the atheists of science.”

  “Please listen to me, Your Grace.”

  Father Malcolm struggled to find the words to enter the bishop’s mind.

  “Their specialized cameras have caught a likeness of the Crucifixion.”

  Bishop Lyons stared at him. Then he burst into a loud coughing fit. Desperately, he ripped a linen handkerchief from his pocket, waved his hand furiously, then slowly, eyes watering, regained composure.

  “You shall abjure this image as a profanation of God,” the bishop said. “And you shall expel these parapsychologists from the church.”

  Father Malcolm stood up.

  “The valley, Your Grace . . . The valley is blooming as though it were spring. Lilacs and dogwood. Apple blossoms. Peach blossoms. Lilies and marigold all through the town.”

  Bishop Lyons regarded him with a fascinated distaste. Father Malcolm stepped even closer.

  “The livestock have returned to health,” he said quickly, “for the first time in years.”

  “Indeed.”

  “It happened the morning after the exorcism.”

  The bishop waved an impatient hand.

  “And you are an expert in animal husbandry—?”

  “Your Grace. There have been two remissions of serious disease! Both dreamed of the rose in the churchyard—a rose that has not bloomed in living memory!”

  “Father—”

  “But this morning, it bloomed!”

  The bishop backed away.

  “Help me, Your Grace,” Father Malcolm said softly. “Might not these signs . . . be portents of a time our Church has long awaited . . . ?”

  “Signs are deceptive. Satan mimics the signs of Christ. Do not be seduced.” Bishop Lyons glared at him angrily. “You have erred in coming here like this, Father Malcolm. And you have given your church to the unsanctified!”

  “But I have felt . . . in myself . . . that these signs . . . might be the signs of revelation!”

  “Revelation? Ah. Yes. So this is your message to me? You’ve determined these signs herald the Second Coming of Our Blessed Savior. That He has selected this troubled church in Golgotha Falls as His portal of reentry!”

  Barely controlling his anger, Bishop Lyons rubbed his hands, over and over. “Let me tell you something, Father Malcolm, about this apocalyptic vision that sets your brain afire. It will be no joyful affair! Its precursors will be thunders, lightnings, great earthquakes, plagues of locust, famines . . . Translated into modern nuclear terms, it could well mean holocaust, the end of life on earth.”

  “Or the beginning of life, Your Grace,” Malcolm added simply. “ ‘And I saw heaven opened, and beheld a white horse,’ ” he recited, “ ‘and he that sat upon it was called faithful and true, and he laid hold on the old Serpent which is Satan, and bound him for a thousand years. And on both sides of the river was the tree of life, yielding its fruits for the healing of nations. And divine teaching came to mankind.’ ”

  Bishop Lyons paced the floor, looked at Father Malcolm, then paced some more. When he stopped, his face had become benign, almost paternal.

  “Eamon,” he said gently. “Christ will come when He will come. It is not for us to hunt for signs.”

  “Bu
t surely this is no ordinary transformation!”

  The bishop maintained his benign smile, though obviously irritated. He put his hands on the Jesuit’s shoulders.

  “Is it the pale rider on a horse that you’ve actually seen, Eamon, holding the balance to weigh souls?” he asked gently. “Or the moon red with blood? Locusts with the faces of men? Have you seen the beast of seven heads and ten horns? Have you heard people speak in tongues? A language in perfect rhythm, rolling cadences never heard on earth, not known even to the person uttering them, a sweet and ecstatic language unknown to man, such as appeared for the first time in the holy Pentecost? Have you heard this language, Eamon?”

  Father Malcolm stammered. “N-No—not that—but—”

  “Have you seen the seven angels and the seven vials of the last plagues? Have you, Eamon? For these are the signs of apocalypse. Not what you’ve mentioned. Not pretty peach trees. Not pretty little calves.”

  “B-But—perhaps—anticipatory signs—for I experienced them in myself and in the church and in the valley!”

  Bishop Lyons took him by the arm and drew him to the leaded glass window. Down below, the orange fog crept into the black channels of the bay, and traffic lights pushed up the lonely hills.

  “How many souls out there are consecrated unto Christ?” he asked. “Look on the real world, Father Malcolm. It is corrupt with hatred and vile in its ambition!”

  “But our mission—”

  “Our mission is to refurbish and replenish the Church before we can prepare men’s hearts for the final act of history.”

  Bishop Lyons strode back into the room. He picked up a thick dossier from his desk. Father Malcolm saw many like it on adjacent rosewood bookshelves.

  “Do you know what this is?” demanded the bishop.

  “Your Grace, please—”

  “The papal itinerary to Quebec, Eamon. In three days, the Nuncio, Cardinal Bellocchi, is coming. And do you know why?”

  Father Malcolm shook his head, abjectly miserable.

  “Because in one week, His Holiness Francis Xavier is going to Quebec on a pilgrimage!”

  Bishop Lyons advanced slowly, red-faced, toward Father Malcolm.

  “Why is His Holiness going to Quebec?” the Bishop whispered. “Why am I going to meet him? Why are the cardinals and bishops of the continent going to Quebec in one week?”

  Father Malcolm swallowed hard. Bishop Lyons stepped even closer. The benign smile reappeared. He spoke to Father Malcolm as to a child.

  “Because the world is a world of sin and corruption, Eamon. Men do not know God. It is a cynical and bitter world, a world where the Antichrist dwells and flourishes. The Pontiff goes where he must to tame the world, Eamon. To leaven it unto Christ. Hamlet by hamlet. City by city. Country by country.”

  The bishop returned to his desk and thumped the dossier back onto its surface. The sheer weight of labor involved in the Nuncio’s imminent arrival seemed to bear down on him.

  “And that means hard work, Eamon,” he said slowly. “Cold, sober organization.”

  Bishop Lyons turned, smiling gently, almost friendly now.

  “By maintaining our discipline, our mental fortitude, Eamon,” he said softly, “we overthrow the presumptuous mimicry of Satan.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Bishop Lyons padded forward on loose slippers and put his hands on Father Malcolm’s shoulders.

  “Be content, my son. You have cleansed a church and restored it to God. To attempt more would be to invite the sin of pride.”

  Father Malcolm felt tears of rage well, but he meekly nodded. The bishop held out the ringed hand. Father Malcolm knelt and kissed it.

  “In all probability,” the bishop said, “the church was never possessed in the first place, but suffered from a negative parishioner flow.”

  Shocked, Father Malcolm stared at the ring. Then he rose and crossed the carpeted chamber, face burning. Evidently the bishop had pressed a button, for the door opened and the elderly priest stood there, trying not to smile.

  Father Malcolm turned back, but Bishop Lyons was already seated at the desk, absorbed in his correspondence. Father Malcolm allowed himself to be escorted down the stairs.

  The portrait of Baldoni, the Sicilian Pope, seemed to observe them all the way to the ground floor.

  “Will you be seeing the appointments secretary in the morning?” asked the elderly priest.

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Good evening, Father Malcolm.”

  “Good evening.”

  Stepping down into the cold fog, he felt chilled, and trembled, and his shoes echoed over the damp stone.

  On the Oldsmobile was a note telling him the lot was reserved for customers of the restaurant. Father Malcolm crumpled it and threw it onto the asphalt.

  When he got into the Oldsmobile, the starter motor was stuck. A sickly grating of non-ignition came back from the dashboard. Father Malcolm leaned against the driver’s wheel, gazed at the small plastic statuette of Christ on the dashboard.

  “Give me strength,” he prayed. “Dear God in heaven, give me strength, for I have none.”

  Father Malcolm stepped from the Oldsmobile. He jammed the gear into second and then rocked the car. When he got back behind the wheel, it started. He backed into the narrow alley. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

  He drove over the suspension bridge perched high over the black, moving bay. The orange lights of the wharf gleamed far below. Neon flickered at the underbelly of the clouds. The world was multiple, he realized, and it ran on money and exploited illusions. The Roman Catholic Church had been born in the turbulence of a disintegrating empire, across the ocean, across almost two thousand years. Father Malcolm wondered if the Church, even with the advent of its new Pope, could survive the proliferation of indifference.

  It was past midnight when Father Malcolm crested the south ridge of Golgotha Falls. Instantly, there was a warmth and the fragrance of peach and lilac from below. He stopped the Oldsmobile.

  The Church of Eternal Sorrows was lighted bright blue like a lunar Roman candle. Cables led through the tall grass and a generator somewhere rumbled. Icy blue light encapsulated the church, throwing dense shadows outward in all directions, even under the steeple. If the red altar lamp was still on, it was utterly dominated by the strange blue lights, for Father Malcolm saw only the ghostly transfiguration of the once serene church.

  Furious, he got out of the automobile and slammed the door. Now he noticed, shielding his eyes, smelling the acrid heat of the blue lamps inside the church, several men and women from the town.

  “They caught it!” shouted a farmer. “They caught it!”

  “Caught what?” Father Malcolm stammered, stumbling past the crowd.

  Inside, he saw through the Gothic windows, Mario and Anita hovered in front of the thermovision screen. A vague nausea turned to a more precise terror. He ran into the church.

  “What is going on here?” he bellowed over the din of the green generator, shaking and fuming under the windows.

  Mario wore his brown leather jacket, very nervous, very excited, nostrils flaring, sweat beading the back of his neck and even glinting in his short, curly hair. Anita turned first, and Father Malcolm saw in her face a mixture of shame and excitement.

  A stench of gasoline from the generator filled the church. Over the altar the red lamp looked purple, almost black, certainly unnatural in the arena of tall, blue focused lamps. It was sickly inside; Mario’s flesh looked like a theatrical cadaver.

  “This is a holy church!” Father Malcolm roared, stepping forward.

  “It’s my laboratory!” Mario shouted back.

  Father Malcolm stepped over the cables. Suddenly, through the space between Anita and Mario, he saw a defined, faintly fluctuating and cobalt-colored version of the cruciform image. Father Malcolm’s face went pale, so pale it turned nearly blue under the nearby lamps. Mario, seeing that shocked face, burst out laughing.

  “It’s the re
sidue,” Mario gloated. “Psychic projections don’t die.”

  Father Malcolm gazed at Mario, confused, the din shrieking in his ears.

  “What?” he said, lips trembling. “What are you talking about?”

  Instead of answering, Mario snapped off the thermovision playback, and with movements so deft Father Malcolm thought he was watching a magician at work, plucked the videotapes from the camera and slipped it into a plastic cassette.

  Anita came forward very slowly. Father Malcolm was still staring at the dark thermovision screen. He felt as though the church had been grossly, vilely violated.

  “We got terrific pictures, Father,” she said gently, “we’re taking the tapes to Harvard.”

  “No, Mario,” Father Malcolm muttered. “I am under an injunction of discretion. From the bishop.”

  Mario grinned, showing perfect white teeth. The eyes, however, were malicious.

  “I don’t recognize the authority of bishops,” Mario sneered.

  Father Malcolm stepped closer to Mario.

  “Mario,” he whispered, shocked, “you cannot show such an image to the world. It comes from my priestly mission. It would be a profanation.”

  Mario saw that the Jesuit was frightened. Not that the bishop had instructed him to keep things discreet and out of the newspapers. No. Something far more awesome. The Jesuit believed in that image. The way pilgrims believed in the Shroud of Turin, or in the stigmata of thousands of crucifixes in scores of ignorant, believing countrysides.

  “I need an extension!” Mario said heatedly. “I need time! I need money! The faculty wants proof! Well, now I’ve got it. They can’t refuse me.”

  Father Malcolm was reaching out to the cassette in Mario’s hand.

  “Mario,” he pleaded, “this image belongs here. In this church.”

  Mario stared disdainfully at Father Malcolm.

  “It’s a psychic projection,” he said coolly. “We publish these images all the time. In journals. In newspapers, if we can. Why not?”

  As he turned to go, he found Father Malcolm’s hands gripped his leather sleeve.

  “No,” Father Malcolm said slowly. “I cannot allow you.”

  Mario laughed, pulling his sleeve away.

  “Say it, Father,” he taunted. “Say what you think this image is.”