still clung to the corners of Brian’s mind. It was one thing to read about such things, he realized – quite another to confront a man who had seen them, and in such a place as this.
“The Miracle,” as Father Gonzalez had put it, was not the purpose of Father Morrigan’s visit; he was merely a messenger for others. Still, with the sensations the old mission generated seeping into his bones, he felt his heart flutter. It was easier to comprehend, in a moment such as this, what Father Prescott found in the work he performed, what he sought when he left the confines of civilization to trek into the wilderness. It was also easier to fear it.
Miracles were possible. Everything that Father Morrigan had studied, all that he had been taught, and all that he believed was a lie if that was not true. His mouth suddenly very dry, he asked.
“Can you take me to him?”
Father Gonzalez nodded. It was difficult to tell if it was in approval, or resignation. Father Brian’s heart went out to the old man, momentarily. He imagined that not everyone approached this place, or this miracle, with an open, inquiring mind.
Father Gonzalez turned and headed back into the shadows. Brian followed, watching where he placed his feet and wondering if all the jumping, slithering things he’d seen outside respected the sanctity of the chapel. They reached the rear wall, and a moment later they were swallowed by the gloom of the hallway that led into the greater exterior of the mission.
In an alcove to the left of the door, the driver of the Jeep sat silently. The shadowed cave had been cut into the adobe wall. Inside were shelves arrayed in a semi-circle, rising one shelf above the next up the wall. These were covered by rows of candles. The man leaned against the wall and watched as the two priests departed, his gaze locked on the center of Father Morrigan’s back. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was pressed into a thin, tight line.
Then, pushing off of the wall violently, he reached down and grabbed the green duffle bag off the floor where he had dropped it. Lifting the bag, he headed back toward the front of the mission, and out of sight.
~ Seven ~
Brian followed Father Gonzalez down a long, dark corridor. To either side there were doors. There was a small chapel, a larger prayer room, another that was obviously the rectory, and more. Father Morrigan paid little attention. He was focused on the glitter of sunlight at the far end of the hall. There was another door opening out the rear of the mission, and that was where Father Gonzalez led him.
“Not swallowed, then,” he murmured.
Father Gonzalez glanced over his shoulder, but Father Morrigan held his silence, feeling a little foolish.
Moments later they stepped onto a wide porch, crossed this, and followed a circling stone stairway down into the jungle. The stairs ended at the foot of a path that led off between the trees, and Father Gonzalez followed this without hesitation.
Father Morrigan heard the voice of the jungle once again. Birds cried. Unseen creatures rustled in the leaves overhead. The wind danced through giant leaves and teased the petals of brilliantly colored blossoms. It was a different world entirely from his comfortable corner of The Vatican. He felt this more strongly with each step.
Then he heard the murmur of voices, rising and falling in a resonant chant, and this, combined with the jungle and the wet heat lent an aura of surreality to the moment. He tried to concentrate on his desk, to see the dark oak walls, the shelves lined with books and the crystal paperweight he used to keep the unruly stack