On the Third Day Read online

  “Good morning, Gladys,” he said, holding out his arm and helping her up the final few steps. “I hope you got a little sleep. Was Norman worried when you got back so late?”

  “That one?” Gladys asked, glancing up sharply. “If he was even aware I wasn’t in the house it had to do with something he wanted that I wasn’t there to provide. I’ll not lose sleep over him, I promise you.”

  Father Thomas’ smile widened. He believed her.

  “Still,” he said, “he came with you this morning. And you…you’re looking ravishing, as always. Is that a new dress?”

  He’d asked her the same question for years, but this time he was almost certain that it was.

  Gladys nodded.

  ”It’s a special day, Father. I feel it. I’ve felt it growing in me since last Easter, and I have never felt it more strongly than I do now. This is the first dress I’ve bought for myself these last ten years, and I believe it may be the last.”

  Father Thomas stared at her, then, without even checking to see who might be watching, he leaned in close and gave the huge old woman a tight hug.

  “Thank you for everything,” he said softly.

  Blushing, Gladys pushed him away, unable to hide her own smile of almost girlish pleasure.

  “Go on with you now,” she said. “Let an old lady get in out of the heat and find a seat.”

  Quentin held the door for her, and then stood alone on the top of the steps for a long moment. He stared off over the ocean, clearing his mind of everything but the words, and the ritual, cleansing his thoughts. Then he turned, stepped into the Cathedral, and drew the doors closed tightly behind him

  The sunlight beat on the wood of the door and glittered off the white walls, winking back at the sky.

  ~ Twenty-One ~

  In it’s day, the Cathedral of San Marcos had housed all of the faithful within traveling distance with ease. The domed ceiling and ornate walls loomed over row upon row of pews, polished oak that gleamed and shimmered in the light of a hundred wall sconces. The altar was raised above the level of the first rows of seats. To the right of this, looking in from the main doors, there was a loft to the right and raised yet another level where the choir sat. To the left, recessed and built in along the wall were three confessionals.

  Fronting all of this was a rail that ran in a semi-circle about the base of the altar. There were carpeted steps leading down to this rail from the altar itself, and on the other side a velvet-lined platform ran the length of the rail. Kneeling on this, the faithful could accept Holy Communion, or, when there was no mass being performed, pray. Something about kneeling in the center of that vast room lent solemnity and power to such prayers.

  Father Prescott had marked off a seat near the front and center. He didn’t want to miss anything. If he sat too close, he’d have to crane his neck, and the altar behind and around Father Thomas would be lost to sight. If he sat too far away from the altar, he could miss something – some trick, or danger. He’d intended to sit and meditate, but his mind raced. He wished he’d taken time to examine the altar itself. A thousand questions he should have asked Father Thomas flitted through his mind, and he tried in vain to piece together the probable answers by drawing on questions that he had asked.

  Around the room, he noted others taking similar posts. Bishop Michaels didn’t climb up to the balcony this year. There were several cordoned off seating areas to the sides of the main pews. Within these were upholstered seats intended for visiting pontiffs. Michaels had taken such a position of honor, and those in his entourage lined the aisle on that side of the cathedral, first and second seats in four rows of pews. Father Prescott took in the men’s dark suits, dark glasses that weren’t removed, even in the church, and wondered how many of them had walked into God’s house “packing”. Despite his aloof manner on the stairs outside, the Bishop wasn’t making a very positive impression, and Donovan saw many of the parishioners turn frowns and glares in Michael’s direction.

  Then there was Clearwater. The man projected an aura of energy that followed him, even into the house of God. He sat with only a single assistant, not too much further back than Donovan himself, and almost dead center. The man had leaned over to discuss something with the woman at his side, a short, blonde woman with very close-cropped hair and a severe expression, and Father Prescott got the distinct impression that the two of them were manipulating something between them. A camera? Some sort of recorder? Donovan recalled the reporter’s insistence on asking about the film from the previous year, and he frowned. He wanted to rise and check it out more thoroughly, but at that moment the choir broke into song and launched into their introductory hymn.

  The room rustled. He couldn’t think of a better way to describe it. Linens and lace, cotton and polyester brushed against one another, and against pews. Hymnals that had been removed from their racks for perusal slid back into place. Feet shuffled, and throats cleared, all in a single burst of sound. The first verse and chorus of the hymn were lost in it, and then it died away, leaving behind the harmonies of the choir dance off the walls and ceiling.

  Father Thomas was not yet in sight. Donovan knew the younger priest was standing out of sight, possibly still in the entrance to the hall leading back to the rectory. He would allow the first hymn to run its course, then make his way slowly up from behind.

  It was easy to get lost in the power of it all, and Donovan had to shake his head to clear it as he waited. He would, he knew, have plenty of chances to celebrate The Mass, but this Sunday was not his alone. It belonged to those he served, The Vatican, the Bishop, and even to Father Thomas himself. He had a responsibility to remain clear-headed and objective. Above all, he couldn’t afford to be distracted. That would do none of them any good.

  The acoustics of the cathedral were amazing. The Spanish roots of the architecture brought forth some of the magic of the great cathedrals of Madrid and Seville. Father Prescott had attended Mass in both cities, as well as in Rome, and yet he couldn’t recall a time when he’d felt the wonder of this day more fully. Energy crackled in the air, a sense of impending…revelation. It wasn’t just himself, he knew. Those around him leaned forward in their seats. After the initial scramble for comfort faded, there was little or no sound except that of the choir. If someone coughed, the sound rose and echoed, lost without company in a room heavy with anticipation and emotion.

  Father Thomas waited until the final chorus began, and then started forward. He climbed the steps behind the altar and came into view, and if anything the silence deepened. Father Prescott let out a breath he’d not been aware of holding, and heard the soft sigh of a room filled with others sharing that same sensation. They were in tune with one another, and with the choir, and they were focused on the young, handsome priest who stepped to the front and stood before them.

  Every gaze was locked on Father Thomas’ hand as he signed the cross. He moved slowly and deliberately, focusing on each action and very aware of the extra attention he was receiving this day. If it rattled him, he didn’t let it show. The congregation fell silent, and he spoke.

  “Welcome to this the celebration of our Holy Mass on the anniversary of the greatest event in the history of the world. This is the day when we, as men and women, feel our imperfections bearing down upon us, the weight of our many sins and the blessing of our faith most intensely.

  “It’s a time to reflect on those things we have done that we regret, and those things we have not done that await our attention. For every event in life, there is a beginning, and an ending. For those of us with faith in our savior, Jesus Christ, there can be a new beginning – a new life – after the old has been washed away. Come. Celebrate with me.”

  The crowd rustled again, moving as a single entity, sharing each breath and heartbeat. The first of the litany belonged to the Parish, and they began to speak. Their voices were low at first. None wanted to be the first to raise himself above the others, or to be singled out. The volume rose slowly, almost imperceptib
ly, until they were all joined in a single, resonant voice.

  “I confess to Almighty God,

  And to you here present,

  That I have sinned through my own fault,

  "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa"

  In my thoughts and in my words,

  In what I have done and in what I have failed to do.

  And I ask Blessed Mary, ever Virgin,

  All the Angels and Saints,

  And you here present

  To pray for me to the Lord, our God.”

  Their voices blended perfectly. Their tone was expectant and beseeching all at once. Father Prescott mouthed the words silently, but he didn’t speak. He was here, and he would experience whatever was to come, but his intent was to distance himself. No matter how powerfully the Mass projected this day, he could not fall prey to its influence if he was to be an impartial judge. He felt a pang, the pain of self-denial, but he pushed it aside with inner contempt. He was not present for himself.

  Donovan gazed up at Father Thomas. The younger man met his gaze, and yet, at the same time seemed to look directly into the soul of each and every person present. It was a very intimate gaze, like an assessment, or judgment. Donovan swallowed hard, but didn’t look away.

  A few moments later he noticed that the air in the cathedral had taken on a shimmering, hazy aspect. He heard the echo of the words being spoken about him, the litany and the response with its old, powerful rhythms, but he couldn’t really make out the words. He knew them, and he felt them, but he didn’t really hear them.

  Father Prescott shook his head sharply. Something buzzed in the back of his brain, but he ignored it. He tore his gaze from that of Father Thomas and turned to his right. He stared down the row of worshippers intently. They did not turn to meet his gaze, not even the closest of them, a young man in a polo shirt and dress pants. Their attention remained fixed on the altar, and on Father Thomas. They met his gaze in some strange, universal manner that was all encompassing, and very personal at the same time. Their lips moved, and Donovan knew they spoke the words of the litany, but it blended together in a strange roar, rising and falling with his heartbeat. He’d felt the same sensation once after a long flight with his ears partially blocked from the pressure change, opening and closing as he chewed gum and letting in static-like bursts of sound.

  He spun the other way, but the motion was slow and surreal. He saw the faces of those around him, the colors of their clothes, but all of it trailed behind his focus, leaving stripes in the air that strobed and shifted colors. He gripped the back of the pew in front of him and turned back to the altar. He sought Father Thomas’ gaze and found that the younger priest stared straight at him – or through him. Before he could call out, or make any sort of sign that something felt wrong, Father Thomas began to speak. Donovan mouthed the words along with the other priest, dragged from word to word and syllable-to-syllable by some unshakeable presence.

  “It is written, in the Book of Psalms, Chapter 22: ‘A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches, and a favor is better than silver or gold. The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is the maker of them all. A prudent man sees danger, and hides himself; but the simple go on and suffer for it. The reward for humility and fear of the Lord is riches and honor and life. Thorns and snares are in the way of the perverse; he who guards himself will keep far from them.”

  Father Thomas’ voice faded to a barely audible whisper, and Donovan leaned forward to hear.

  “Far from them…” Father Thomas repeated.

  Everything fell silent. Father Thomas stood alone, looking small and very vulnerable on the altar. His face hadn’t gone slack, and yet Father Prescott saw that something had changed. Something had skewed, slid right off the face of reality, and he couldn’t quite place it. No one moved. There were no random coughs. No feet shuffled, and no hymnals slid in or out of the racks on the pews.

  From the left of the altar, very loud, a new voice cried out. Father Thomas’ lips didn’t move, nor did he turn to see who had joined his Mass – or what. Father Prescott dragged his gaze to the side with a physical effort and scanned the shadows. He saw nothing – no one stood anywhere near the altar, and yet the voice boomed out and filled the cathedral with sound.

  Father Prescott closed his eyes and tried to orient himself. In that instant, an image flashed through his mind. A lone man, hair gray and wild, flying back over his shoulders glared at him defiantly. The man’s robes flowed over strong shoulders. His eyes were bright points of light that penetrated time, the room, and Donovan’s heart. He cried out, but no sound emerged.

  The lone cantor spoke.

  “I lift up my eyes to the hills. From whence does my help come?”

  The words were so painfully familiar they stole his breath, and so different – so filled with power and weighted with meaning it was like speaking them for the first time. He’d read them, but now they were his own. He’d repeated them, memorized them – now, for the first time, he spoke them, and understood them. Tears poured from the corners of his eyes. He whispered the response.

  “My help comes from the Lord, who made Heaven and the Earth.”

  His words rang out through the cathedral. His whisper reverberated from the rafters and rattled the stained glass of the windows. In the moment of silence that followed his words, the focus of the room shifted. Every eye turned to him. They stared, dazed, as though each was awakening from his or her own dream, only aware of their surroundings in that moment because of the impossible volume of that single sentence.

  Father Prescott shook, and his knees threatened not to support his weight. He knew that they had heard him. He knew because they stared at him, open-mouthed. He had no microphone, and he’d barely mouthed the syllables of the response, but they knew the words, and they knew who had spoken them. Comforting words. Uplifting words. One of the songs of ascension, the 121st Psalm.

  Tears filled his eyes and blurred the image of Father Thomas, standing alone – not forgotten, but momentarily secondary to the booming cantor’s voice, whoever it belonged to, and Father Prescott himself. Donovan blinked and tried to clear his sight. He needed to be careful, to watch what unfolded on the stage. If he got carried away, or became part of the experience on too deep a level, any report he might make to his superiors would be tainted. He could say whatever he wanted, and someone would stand off to the side and casually ask him about that supposed voice-throwing trick he’d mastered. These thoughts and more tumbled through his mind, and he clawed toward their surface fighting for control.

  All of this took a span of only seconds. The cantor cried, “He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.”

  Father Prescott’s lips quivered. He fought the impulse to respond.

  A gasp rippled through the congregation then. The sound rose in various points of the room and rode the wave of those to either side, sometimes meeting in the center of an aisle in a rush of sound. The effect was loud, powerful, and mesmerizing.

  Father Prescott managed to raise one hand to his eyes, brushed it across his eyes backhand, and blinked. He stared at the altar, fixed on Father Thomas, and nearly moaned. A thin line had formed on Father Thomas’ brow. At first it seemed a band of hair had dropped and circled the priest’s brow. It was dark, but symmetrical. Then, very slowly that band thickened. It might have been an illusion, some shadow cast by the rising sun and filtered through the high windows. It might have been a dark wrinkle filled with sweat and glinting with captured light. Father Prescott knew that it was not, and he spoke, his voice still low as he completed the second stanza of the psalm.

  “Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.”

  The symmetry of the band on Father Thomas’ brow broke. Gaps appeared along its length, and from these, rivulets rolled down the placid features of his face. Donovan concentrated. He tried to make out the color, but from where he sat, whatever it was appeared dark – black against the pale white of
Father Thomas’ skin. When had it started? Had the young priest pulled some sleight of hand while Donovan was distracted by the voice? And whose voice was it? Where was the cantor, and why did he not make his presence known?

  There were just enough questions in all that was happening to stain the moment with doubt. Donovan bit his lip and shook his head. He wiped his eyes again, and again the booming voice drove forth from the shadows, reminding him that despite the fact each second seemed an eternity, only a moment had passed since he’d last spoken.

  “The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.”

  Absently, Donovan raised his hand and shielded his eyes, cupping his palm over his brow to act as a blinder. It didn’t help. He was too far from Father Thomas to know for sure, and the trickle of dark liquid trailed down in streaks from the band on Quentin’s forehead. Something bunched there, folded skin – or – a crown of thorns?

  Donovan spoke again, “The sun will not smite you by day, nor the moon by night.”

  Without hesitation the voice of the unseen cantor poured out over the gathering.

  “The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.”

  As the words rolled over and through him, Donovan realized they had shifted once again. He scanned the shadows desperately, but saw nothing. He turned back to the altar as the last word was uttered. Father Thomas’ lips moved. The sound now emanated from him as clearly as it had not moments before. Had it been his voice all along? Was it possible? Had he put something in the coffee that morning, something that had addled Donovan’s mind to the point he couldn’t tell one voice from another, one direction from the next?

  Did it matter?

  Donovan spoke the final phrase and felt the power in his voice, the volume behind his whisper. He knew they heard him, all of them heard him, impossible as that might be, just as he’d heard the voice of someone who did not appear to exist. He did not know why it was important to finish, but it was – and he did.