Revelations 21:27
Wednesday, 10th October: Father Sebastian was breaking himself in slowly. They'd kept him in Springfield's Mercy Hospital, the fiefdom of the well regarded Sisters of Providence, for two weeks. The force of the knife thrust had been taken by his ribs. He'd been lucky. If it had been someone who knew how to use a knife they'd have thrust the blade upwards and the wound would have been fatal. As it was his lung was punctured but they'd stitched him up and pumped him full of painkillers and, in the normal course of events, he'd have been convalescing at home - but the diocese was being precious about things and forced his doctors to insist on a longer hospital rest than was strictly appropriate.
And Father Sebastian had acquiesced without real protest. He had a lot to think about and he was mentally more exhausted than he cared to admit. But now he'd been given a clean bill of health and he was out.
He'd accepted the invitation to drinks at Michael Hanlin's Gothic-Tudor style house down at 195 Longhill because enough was enough. It was time to face the world. They sat together in the huge oak panelled drawing room at number 195. Just himself, Hanlin, and Richard Bryer. Rick Bryer was a tall man, a former C.I.A. agent and Hanlin's friend. Hanlin's wife Jane was down in Florida looking after her invalid sister, so this was an all male affair. Father Sebastian had been about ready to wean himself off the pain-killers anyway. He'd set them aside after taking one early in the day, reasoning that Hanlin's alcohol would make a good substitute.
Which was O.K. - But he'd been glad of that first whisky from Hanlin's practiced hand. Neat twelve year old Glenmorangie on the rocks, and liberally poured. True amber nectar. He'd sipped it through a straw, the way he'd sipped the ice cream sodas the nurses had made for him in the hospital when he'd not been eating and they wanted to build up his strength.
"Hell of a thing, what happened to you. And you've no idea who did it?" Bryer had asked the question, his keen, sharp eyes watching Seb, friendly with an edge, like a sheepdog watching a lamb.
"None," Seb lied. Another sin. But how could he not lie? Should he express his suspicion, confess that the man who assaulted him a few days earlier had been Springfield's respected Water Commissioner, the recently bereaved Robert Young? The lie itself creased Seb's forehead. He had always thought himself gifted with some measure of discernment. But was this small lie a kindness, a God inspiration - or was it an evil, and of Satanic inspiration he wondered? And he had no idea which. He was all too well aware that the mystic approach to life was more acutely subject to demonic influences than almost any other. Where then was truth? So elusive. Like cupping your hands to grasp water only to see every last drop fall through your fingers.
"Too much evil in the world," said Bryer, his laconic manner covering the fact that he scented the lie, expected it even.
Seb and Hanlin were drinking the Glenmorangie. Bryer had made a big dent in his lager, the whisky denied him because of rampant gout. "There seems to be a hole in the bottom of your glass," Hanlin said. He topped him up.
"Yes, evil," Father Seb was saying. "Reminds me of the compline prayer, 'Beware for Satan has come down like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour'."
"Poor Satan. He always gets a bad press," responded Bryer.
"Not if you're a Yezidi," said Hanlin.
"Meaning?" asked Bryer, who was well used to humoring his friend's desire to act the raconteur.
"As you know I used to serve in Iraq."
Bryer nodded. Seb looked up.
"They have this sect. The Yezidis. There are upwards of a half-million of them. Their holy day is Wednesday. They won't eat lettuce. They take as many wives as they like and their priests are celibate. The more zealous amongst them have been known to castrate themselves."
Father Seb grimaced but then said, "Not such a bad idea."
Hanlin raised an eyebrow in astonishment. "Don't tell me you are tempted by women?"
"Is a priest not a man? If you prick him does he not bleed?"
"In your case 'Yes' I guess. Well, who'd have thought it?"
"Get back to your story and leave the poor priest alone," grumbled Bryer.
"O.K. - As I was saying, these people worship Satan."
"You're not serious?"
"Well not exactly worship him. They pray to the sun by day and the moon by night. But they respect Satan as the Peacock Angel, the first amongst the angels."
"That's bizarre," said Seb. And sensing there was more he added, "Go on."
"Their theology is interesting. They reckon that Satan fell from grace for his pride, just like the Moslems do."
Seb nodded. This he'd heard before.
"But they reckon that he repented. That he was redeemed by God and returned to heaven. And now the whole world is going through that same process of redemption. Or would do, if we could but repent of our sins."
"So not so bizarre after all I guess," said Bryer, demolishing yet more of his beer as an afterthought. "Eh Father? What do you think?"
"I think I could do with a refill."
Hanlin patted Bart, the Rottweiler Shepherd cross from which he was inseparable, then got to his feet to oblige.
"And in answer to your question. Anyone who's seeking redemption is not that far from God's mercy."
"What about that, 'No one comes to the Father but through Me' line attributed to Jesus in John's gospel?" asked Hanlin. "I thought you priests believed only us Christians were saved."
"Not exactly. Not in my case anyway. The way I see it, since you ask, is that we all face Christ when we meet God on Judgement Day. There is no salvation but through our Lord. That salvation is open to all. Moslem, Jew, Buddhist, whatever."
"A little heretical surely Father Seb?" asked Hanlin.
"Not really. Jesus gave us the parable of feast. When the invited guests were too busy to turn up on time. He turned them away and sent out for the beggars and the poor. We are the invited guests - but we are warned not to take our salvation forgranted."
"And your assailant. He gets salvation?"
Seb smiled like he meant it. "I sure hope so."
"Well personally I hope he rots in hell, whoever he was," said Bryer.
"Which brings me to the point. We had an ulterior motive for bringing you over here."
Seb laughed. "Shame on you boys. I thought you wanted my company."
"We do," said Hanlin. "But are you intending to walk home through those back streets?"
"I don't really see why not."
"You don't? Well I'll tell you why not. Because Richard and I are going to take turns in my Hummer. We'll pick you up after church, or whenever you finish, and run you home."
Seb chuckled at the prospect of being collected in Hanlin's silver-grey Hummer H3 - a scaled down version of the monster the boys used in Iraq. "In that tank? You can't be serious. No, I'll walk."
"Then we'll be walking with you. At least for the next couple of weeks. Regard it as our bid for redemption. There'll be no argument. And we'll be armed."
Seb laughed again, about to protest but Richard Bryer stopped him, raising his glass and using it to point by way of emphasis. "We're serious," he said.
And Seb, despite himself, was touched by their concern. "Thank you both. O.K. But no Hummer. And for two weeks only. Else I'll feel like the President."
"Yeh. Well for us you're just as important," said Richard. Which was true, he reflected. He meant it. He really liked this guy. "God knows who had it in for you; but no one's going to touch you on our watch."
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