My head feels like a hornets' nest, swarming with thoughts. I sit outside Father Michael's office, having been escorted here by Brother Paul and Domenico. They would not say why I've been summoned -- I suspect that Paul did not know, but Domenico had a certain tension around his eyes and would not meet my gaze for long.
Is it possible that Father Michael knows what I've been doing? Can I have somehow tipped my hand? On the way here I tried to gauge the nature of my summons, asking several questions. I tried to keep them light, but I have been described as dour and I know that levity would have left them more suspicious than they arrived. (Truly, I do not believe I am dour. I believe I am focused. If my neutral focused face appears dour to those unwilling to inquire, perhaps they should attempt a level of focus beyond snoozing in the chapel.)
That was uncharitable. I feel out of balance. Perhaps it is good that Father Michael is calling me before him, I could confess my recent ... sins? Do I believe them to be sins? Not really. Then what are they? I have no idea. But even now as I write this I hear Scarborough Faire in my mind's ear, clear as day. Or is someone playing it in the music room? Leaning in that direction doesn't change the sound ... and neither does getting up and peeking around that corner. Who would be playing Scarborough Faire here, anyway? At this hour? In this place? I suppose, technically, it's folk music. Simon and Garfunkel merely spread it about. They didn't write the damned song. Why do I hear it?! Who is playing it? Haunting, lovely, sad, bittersweet, longing ... how well I remember the first time I heard it. Before the dark days.
I hear him coming --
11:48 pm
The world is turned on its head and shaken. What falls out? Everything I had sought to leave behind. I have just spoken at length with Father Michael. Thus:
"Good evening, Brother Ambrose," the handshake and Fatherly hand clapping my right shoulder lightly, just enough to imply camaraderie without overstepping any boundaries. Clearly-defined roles.
"Father Michael," I begin, preemptive as ever when threatened; as he closes his office door behind us, locking it, he speaks over me:
"We've had word from Johannes and Oswald," he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. I sit automatically, shocked; he is sitting in his chair behind the desk as I blurt:
"How -- where?"
"Before we go any further, Ambrose, I want you to know that I respect your reasons for wanting to leave your past behind you; I have made a point of leaving you to your business and keeping you out of certain activities in which I have asked a few of your Brothers to assist. I would never ask this of you, were it not a dire situation."
"Father, I will do anything you ask if it means getting them back here, whole. Johannes and Oswald --" I'm stumbling over my words.
"As to that," he says, holding up a hand in, what, warning? Caution? "I do not know that we can bring them back whole, if at all."
"What happened? Where are they? Were they able to find why the fires are burning unchecked? Where is the National Guard? Where is the Red Cross? Why do we just sit here when people all around us need our help?! I have been waiting and praying --" I see his eyes widen, his eyebrows raise, and I'm aware that this is more than I've said in months, perhaps years. I start to speak again, then stop.
For a long moment, there is only silence.
"I knew when you joined us that you needed more than just retreat or retirement, Ambrose. I hesitate because I think I understand your pain, but because I do not -- can not -- know what it is like for you. If I show you what we've found, I want you to understand clearly that I am not asking you to do anything about it. I am asking you for your advice only. Anything beyond that is entirely voluntary. Am I clear?"
"Yes," I say, certainty settling into my bones like a comfortable old coat. I know what my answer will be before he turns his computer monitor around and clicks play.
At first I see only people -- the backs of men in plaid flannel shirts with heavy suspenders and tough denim pants, the women in what look like a mix of American pilgrim and Hollie Hobby garb, though every one of them seems to wear some kind of bonnet or ... nurse hat?
Then one of the men turns and looks at the camera. I can hear feet shuffling on gravel and wind and some birds chirping, plus another sound -- a kind of keening shriek; like a boar in agony. There are oak trees, clearly this is local, this is East Bay chaparral, but the man who turns and looks at the camera is Brother Oswald.
"What -- ?" I start, then fall silent as Brother Oswald shifts to the left and the camera moves forward a step to two -- Brother Johannes must be recording this -- picking up the scene beyond.
A filthy, half-naked homeless man is screeching at the crowd, flinging gestures at a man on a stationary hospital gurney, tubes trailing from under the bloodstained sheets; if I couldn't see his face, I would wonder if it were a pregnant woman: he has a large belly.
I recognize this.
Not the place and people. The situation. I sit upright, all my old training clicking back into place.
The rocking, the rolling of the eyes, the moaning from the crowd. This is a cult. A cult in the beginning throes of mob ecstasy. The filthy man must be the leader, people flinch at his shrieking. His words become clear:
"...Somewhere among you he may yet lurk! This man's twin in all things, even the broken leg! This man with stolen Godspeak come to deceive you with his dark magic! She questions my power because she thinks she can! Yet you all know I hold the power of Life and Death in my hands! See! Ezekiel, bring me the White Sheet! So saith the Prophet!"
"So saith the Lord," someone behind and to the left of the camera shouts; it's echoed by a few others..
A man dressed like the rest comes running up with a clean white sheet.
"Behold! I place the sheet and he will die at my command! So saith the Prophet!"
"So saith the Lord," more people repeat. They sound unhappy.
The filthy cult leader unfurls the sheet like a sideshow charlatan over the unconscious man on the gurney, grinning and leering at the crowd. I am always surprised at what people will put their faith in. The cult leader continues to shriek:
"Lo and behold, the Prophet did see that the man and woman were Of The Devil, and he did ask Almighty God for his thundrous hand to smite them down. And God did as the Prophet asked, so saith the Prophet?!"
Then a voice comes from somewhere, loud and clear but slightly muffled:
"So saith your Mom!"
A woman's voice cries out, "Tad!"
The cult leader is derailed, turning with a start to the gurney as the man I'd thought unconscious and possibly dying whips the fresh sheet down from his face, a big grin lighting his face. Like this is all a joke, or ... more like it's performance. An act.
The crowd, though -- all of them take a step back, some of them fall to the gravel beneath their feet. A few try to leap forward, rage burning in their faces, but are restrained by others behind them. I think I catch a glimpse of Brother Louis restraining a short, balding man, but I can't be sure.
Brother Louis, I had been told, was visiting family. I turn to Father Michael as the camera turns to Brother Oswald, who scowls and gestures back toward the gurney with a jerk of his head. I save my question for later as the camera turns back and the man on the gurney ("Tad"?) calls to the cult leader:
"Hey there, fucko!" At this the leader whirls to him, like a bad little boy caught setting something on fire. The man on the gurney smiles like a celebrity and calls out, all bonhomie, "Feeling rapey?"
The leader is pointing immediately, screeching,"Tell me now how you did it and I may allow your Whore to live! Tell me how you created your double!"
Still smiling, and including the crowd in his words, the gurney man doesn't miss a beat: "Well, I can't exactly tell you that, Torvald Walter Mayberry. But I can show you, you false prophet and fucker of corpses! Would you like that, Mr. Twistydick?"
Torvald Walter Mayberry?
I stop breathing, but feel like I need to gasp.
A woman has laughed and the gurney man turns to his left, waggling his eyebrows at her, I imagine; there are people in the way, we can't see clearly who is over there.
"Yes, yes, do show us all, Foul Deceiver! Show us your Hellbane and Hemlock!"
"No hellbane and hemlock here, Torvald," says the man on the gurney.
That name again. I breathe. Can't be coincidence.
"Just good, old-fashioned know-how," the man on the gurney continues, then looks at his right arm; blood has continued to soak the sheet. He turns to his left, speaking perhaps to the same person who laughed earlier; definitely someone specific. "Do I need a tourniquet for this?"
"Yes," two women, in unison. He seems to gasp a little, or laugh quickly. I see panic under that smile. But he's putting on a good show. Ah, I see: he's being brave. He loves one of those women. Both? Is this a polygamist cult?
"Done, ladies. Honey, I love you. Hold on to that amulet."
He throws her a kiss. At least three of the women near the camera sigh. Sounds like the crowd is swayed. This feels final. I sit forward.
He whips the sheet back up over his head, he's completely covered and there's a brief shifting under the sheet.
Gunshot. Mannlicher Carcano, from the sound of it, and a bullet tears through the sheet into the man on the gurney and the woman screams but someone steps in front of Brother Johannes just as I want a clearer look at that gurney.
"Move your ass," I mutter, and am shocked when Father Michael says, "Amen."
Brother Johannes wants to see the gurney as well. He steps around the woman in front of him just as the cult leader pulls the sheet from the gurney to reveal ...
A fat, healthy rabbit. Sitting on a pile of pillows.
The cult leader is shrieking as he falls to the gravel, "Aaauuyyuuughhhhh, no bunnies no bunnies no bunnies NO! BUNNIES!"
We hear Brother Johannes gasp and half-chuckle, but a woman's voice calls out:
"Bearded Ezekiels! Nurse Rachels! NOW!"
Sudden jumbled action, fumbling of the camera (must be a smartphone).
The video ends.
I know immediately what I must do.
"Torvald Walter Mayberry," I say.
"Yes?" Father Michael is alert.
"I have his journal."
The video ends.
I know immediately what I must do.
"Torvald Walter Mayberry," I say.
"Yes?" Father Michael is alert.
"I have his journal."
Three posts, one day! What a treat!
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