Chapter 5
Father MacClenny stared at the bundle of money thrown by the local warlord for the care of the badly beaten and broken man, now removed by Sister Mary Sarah.
“Get him better in three weeks.” Tehpoe had demanded
How was he going to do that? He believed the Sister, despite her penchant for the negative. Her abilities were as beneficial as her attitude was not.
He mouthed a silent prayer for the man, his first, and for the 10,000th time, for the wayward Sister. And he envied her strength. He found that his feet were finally able to move again, and he thanked God for the return of that simple ability, shuffling toward the mission front door, still open and letting the heat in.
“Why, God, am I here?” he asked, looking up at the entrance, as if he could see God floating above in the cloudless sky. “What did I do to deserve this placement, this building, this life, and what did I ever do to deserve that woman? And why, if you wanted her to torture me daily with her tongue, why did you have to make her so incredibly beautiful?” He dropped his vision of her and focused his thoughts on the man.
The good Father above knew the answers. The one most appropriate for this occasion seemed to be the parable of the sparrow. If God kept track of the birds of the field, he certainly would keep track of the poor man now resting somewhere inside his mission. The man, probably once a great physical specimen, was now shriveled up to the size of a sparrow. Three weeks. A miracle would be if he even lived three weeks. He prayed for that too, but chocked on the words “speedy recovery.” Any recovery at this point. Then the Father chided himself for his lack of faith. “What God has joined together, let not man put asunder.” Why did he suddenly think of that?
He stuffed the money in a desk drawer in his tiny office. Stupid to have a desk, where nothing was written and visitors were so seldom, he could see the dust forming on the unused chairs facing it. His chair wasn’t dusty, as he sat in it daily, trying to figure out what he was doing and what, if anything, he should do differently. For the most part, nothing came to mind.
With a sigh, Father MacClenny pulled a couple of the US dollars out of the bundle and stuffed them in a pocket inside his robe. He left his office and the mission, heading out toward the hospital, a good half hour walk through the terror of a town, rivaling any he had seen in old movies from the US. Western towns with no law. Here, the law was more feared then anything else, including feared by him.
As always, whatever the locals were doing, it all came to a halt as he approached, and stayed a halt until well after he was past. Although the region was considered Christian, abet the mix of western religion and local pagan customs clouded the concept. Plus, the Christian influence had not been Catholic, but Methodist, protestant, their presence now long gone since the revolution started. The Catholic presence should have been long gone too. The casualties were piling up, including some from the church. Again, he wondered, why was he here? What great plan was unfolding that would make a difference though him?
His thoughts were broken by a manifestation suddenly in front of him. He tried to focus on the large black man blocking his way, but the shotgun pointed at his middle confused him momentarily. Where was he going and why?
“What you doing, preacher man? You outside your god house mixing with us heathen? Dangerous out here.”
He remembered. “Tehpoe sent me.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but if the beaten man was ever to perform dentistry on his son, this trip was required.
The word caused the man to pause, but not lower his weapon.
“Tehpoe dudtent care what no preacher man doing. He got better things to care.”
“There is a man at the mission who is sick. He needs medication.”
“Medication?” The man broke out a smile, showing some teeth missing. “Dat drugs, man? You looking for drugs? I got something here…”
The man’s face suddenly froze white, as he lowered the shotgun and watched his own chest, where a sudden blotch of bright red was growing rapidly. Father MacClenny vaguely heard the report of a rifle, not a shotgun, or a revolver, and watched the man slump, first to his knees, then face down. He tried to focus on what was happening, for certain some yelling was taking place, but it all seemed to be going further and further away, spinning off into the darkness.
Very carefully, as not to disturb the folds of his robe or reveal the money, Father MacClenny joined the man in the dust. His last conscious feeling was of his face bouncing off his hands as he collided with the ground, and his last conscious thought was of how hard it was to keep his robes clean.
“Get him better in three weeks.” Tehpoe had demanded
How was he going to do that? He believed the Sister, despite her penchant for the negative. Her abilities were as beneficial as her attitude was not.
He mouthed a silent prayer for the man, his first, and for the 10,000th time, for the wayward Sister. And he envied her strength. He found that his feet were finally able to move again, and he thanked God for the return of that simple ability, shuffling toward the mission front door, still open and letting the heat in.
“Why, God, am I here?” he asked, looking up at the entrance, as if he could see God floating above in the cloudless sky. “What did I do to deserve this placement, this building, this life, and what did I ever do to deserve that woman? And why, if you wanted her to torture me daily with her tongue, why did you have to make her so incredibly beautiful?” He dropped his vision of her and focused his thoughts on the man.
The good Father above knew the answers. The one most appropriate for this occasion seemed to be the parable of the sparrow. If God kept track of the birds of the field, he certainly would keep track of the poor man now resting somewhere inside his mission. The man, probably once a great physical specimen, was now shriveled up to the size of a sparrow. Three weeks. A miracle would be if he even lived three weeks. He prayed for that too, but chocked on the words “speedy recovery.” Any recovery at this point. Then the Father chided himself for his lack of faith. “What God has joined together, let not man put asunder.” Why did he suddenly think of that?
He stuffed the money in a desk drawer in his tiny office. Stupid to have a desk, where nothing was written and visitors were so seldom, he could see the dust forming on the unused chairs facing it. His chair wasn’t dusty, as he sat in it daily, trying to figure out what he was doing and what, if anything, he should do differently. For the most part, nothing came to mind.
With a sigh, Father MacClenny pulled a couple of the US dollars out of the bundle and stuffed them in a pocket inside his robe. He left his office and the mission, heading out toward the hospital, a good half hour walk through the terror of a town, rivaling any he had seen in old movies from the US. Western towns with no law. Here, the law was more feared then anything else, including feared by him.
As always, whatever the locals were doing, it all came to a halt as he approached, and stayed a halt until well after he was past. Although the region was considered Christian, abet the mix of western religion and local pagan customs clouded the concept. Plus, the Christian influence had not been Catholic, but Methodist, protestant, their presence now long gone since the revolution started. The Catholic presence should have been long gone too. The casualties were piling up, including some from the church. Again, he wondered, why was he here? What great plan was unfolding that would make a difference though him?
His thoughts were broken by a manifestation suddenly in front of him. He tried to focus on the large black man blocking his way, but the shotgun pointed at his middle confused him momentarily. Where was he going and why?
“What you doing, preacher man? You outside your god house mixing with us heathen? Dangerous out here.”
He remembered. “Tehpoe sent me.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but if the beaten man was ever to perform dentistry on his son, this trip was required.
The word caused the man to pause, but not lower his weapon.
“Tehpoe dudtent care what no preacher man doing. He got better things to care.”
“There is a man at the mission who is sick. He needs medication.”
“Medication?” The man broke out a smile, showing some teeth missing. “Dat drugs, man? You looking for drugs? I got something here…”
The man’s face suddenly froze white, as he lowered the shotgun and watched his own chest, where a sudden blotch of bright red was growing rapidly. Father MacClenny vaguely heard the report of a rifle, not a shotgun, or a revolver, and watched the man slump, first to his knees, then face down. He tried to focus on what was happening, for certain some yelling was taking place, but it all seemed to be going further and further away, spinning off into the darkness.
Very carefully, as not to disturb the folds of his robe or reveal the money, Father MacClenny joined the man in the dust. His last conscious feeling was of his face bouncing off his hands as he collided with the ground, and his last conscious thought was of how hard it was to keep his robes clean.
posted by John | 12:38 PM
1 Comments:
As always, I try to contrast the opinions of people with what they are really like. The Father has problems, but not as many as Novas gives him.
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