Part 13 (2/2)

”In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He turned and made his way down the pulpit steps, and told himself, Well, you ought to be used to it by now, Heaven knows. After all, you're a priest, not a monologist. What do you care about ”audience reaction?” And besides, who ever listens to these sermons of yours, anyway--even under the best of conditions? A few of the ladies in the parish (though you're sure they never hear or understand a word), and, of course, Donovan. But who else?

Screech away, little pink child! Screech until you--no.

No, no. Ahhh!

He walked through the sacristy, trying not to think of Donovan, or the big city churches with their fine nurseries, and sound-proof walls, and amplifiers that amplified .

One had what one had: it was G.o.d's will.

And were things really so bad? Here there was the smell of forests, wasn't there? And in what city parish could you see wild flowers growing on the hills like bright lava? Or feel the earth breathing?

He opened the door and stepped outside.

The fields were dark-silver and silent. Far above the fields, up near the clouds, a rocket launch moved swiftly, dragging its slow thunder behind it.

Father Courtney blinked.

Of course things were not so bad. Things would be just fine, he thought, and I would not be nervous and annoyed at little children, if only-- Abruptly he put his hands together. ”Father,” he whispered, ”let him be well. Let that be Your will!”

Then, deciding not to wait to greet the people, he wiped his palms with a handkerchief and started for the rectory.

The morning was very cold. A thin film of dew coated each pebble along the path, and made them all glisten like drops of mercury. Father Courtney looked at the pebbles and thought of other walks down this path, which led through a woods to Hidden River, and of himself laughing; of excellent wine and soft cus.h.i.+ons and himself arguing, arguing; of a thousand sweet hours in the past.

He walked and thought these things and did not hear the telephone until he had reached the rectory stairs.

A chill pa.s.sed over him, unaccountably.

He went inside and pressed a yellow switch. The screen blurred, came into focus. The face of an old man appeared, filling the screen.

”h.e.l.lo, Father.”

”George!” the priest smiled and waved his fist, menacingly. ”George, why haven't you contacted me?” He sputtered. ”Aren't you out of that bed yet?”

”Not yet, Father.”

”Well, I expected it, I knew it. Now will you let me call a doctor?”

”No--” The old man in the screen shook his head. He was thin and pale. His hair was profuse, but very white, and there was something in his eyes. ”I think I'd like you to come over, if you could.”

”I shouldn't,” the priest said, ”after the way you've been treating all of us. But, if there's still some of that Chianti left . . .”

George Donovan nodded. ”Could you come right away?”

”Father Yos.h.i.+da won't be happy about it.”

”Please. Right away.”Father Courtney felt his fingers draw into fists. ”Why?” he asked, holding onto the conversational tone. ”Is anything the matter?”

”Not really,” Donovan said. His smile was brief. ”It's just that I'm dying.”

”And I'm going to call Doctor Ferguson. Don't give me any argument, either. This nonsense has gone far--”

The old man's face knotted. ”No,” he said, loudly. ”I forbid you to do that.”

”But you're ill, man. For all we know, you're _seriously_ ill. And if you think I'm going to stand around and watch you work yourself into the hospital just because you happen to dislike doctors, you're crazy.”

”Father, listen--please. I have my reasons. You don't understand them, and I don't blame you.

But you've got to trust me. I'll explain everything, if you'll promise me you won't call _anyone_.”

Father Courtney breathed unsteadily; he studied his friend's face, Then he said, ”I'll promise this much. I won't contact a doctor until I've seen you.”

”Good.” The old man seemed to relax. ”I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

”With your Little Black Bag?”

”Certainly not. You're going to be all right.”

”Bring it, Father. Please. Just in case.”

The screen blurred and danced and went white. Father Courtney hesitated at the blank telephone. Then he walked to a table and raised his fists and brought them down hard, once.

You're going to get well, he thought. It isn't going to be too late. Because if you are dying, if you really are, and I could have prevented it . . . He went to the closet and drew on his overcoat.

It was thick and heavy, but it did not warm him. As he returned to the sacristy he s.h.i.+vered and thought that he had never been so cold before in all his life.

The Helicar whirred and dropped quickly to the ground. Father Courtney removed the ignition key, pocketed it, and thrust his bulk out the narrow door, wheezing.

A dull rumbling sifted down from the sky. The wake of fleets a mile away, ten miles, a hundred.

_It's raining whales in our backyard_, the priest thought, remembering how Donovan had described the sound once to a little girl.

A freshet of autumn leaves burst against his leg, softly, and for a while he stood listening to the rockets' dying rumble, watching the shapes of gold and red that scattered in the wind, like fire.

Then he whispered, ”Let it be Your will,” and pushed the picket gate. The front door of the house was open.

He walked in, through the living-room, to the study.

”George.”

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