something.”
Father Prescott remained silent, waiting. He had a lot to say, but he knew that these rooms, and this young priest, were the wrong targets for his words. It would do no good to shoot the messenger, and what he wanted more than anything at that moment was for this meeting to be done so that he could find a telephone and rant at the man behind the message in a more personal manner.
Father Morrigan glanced around and nearly spilled his water trying to peer over the edge of the bed and into the corners of the room. He blushed again, and Father Prescott placed a hand on the younger man’s arm to calm him.
Father Morrigan met his gaze gratefully, and then asked, “Do you have my things? My briefcase?”
Father Prescott leaned down. The duffle bag and the briefcase both rested against the foot of the bed, out of Father Morrigan’s sight. Father Prescott lifted the leather case and placed it gently across Father Morrigan’s lap.
Still flustered, and more than a little weak and dizzy, Brian fumbled open the clasps and lifted the lid. He rummaged around inside for a few moments, pulling out files and pushing things aside, one by one, until he drew forth a long, slender chain. From the bottom, a leather pouch dangled. He turned, holding this up to Father Prescott with a trembling hand.
“He said that I should give you this,” the young priest said. “He said that you’d understand.”
Father Prescott caught sight of the pouch, and he froze. His features went momentarily slack, and he slumped back heavily in his chair.
Father Morrigan saw the reaction the object in his hand had caused and leaned forward in alarm
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
Father Prescott didn’t hear him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, as memories shifted up from the depths to cloud the moment. They were so clear that he could smell the polished wood and rich leather of Cardinal O’Brien’s office.
Across the desk, Cardinal O’Brien sat, holding the slender chain, the pouch dangling from it and spinning in a lazy circle over the heavy blotter. Father Prescott watched, mesmerized. He reached out a hand and gently stroked the soft pouch in wonder.
“What is it?” he asked?
“This,” Cardinal O’Brien answered, “Don, is the one thing I’ve never been able to explain. This is the one miracle, in all my time in the Church that I cannot say – is not . Rather, this is a reminder of that miracle. I keep it close to me, and when there are moments of doubt, I hold it – and I dream about it.”
Father Prescott held the pouch in his hand gently, entranced. He wanted to open it, but to do so without O’Brien’s bidding was unthinkable.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“One day,” O’Brien replied, “perhaps you will answer that question for me. One day after you have found your own miracles.”
The Cardinal withdrew the chain, slipped the pouch into the folds of his vestments, and reached out with his free hand. He tapped Father Darren Prescott directly over his heart, and said.
“When you have found your own miracles, and resolved them . . . here.”
The memory dissolved. Father Prescott shook his head and sat up straight. The small room in the middle of the Peruvian jungle, and Father Morrigan’s confused, concerned face, slid back into focus.
Father Prescott reached out and stroked the pouch. He cupped his hand and Father Morrigan dropped the bag into it, letting the chain pour
Father Prescott remained silent, waiting. He had a lot to say, but he knew that these rooms, and this young priest, were the wrong targets for his words. It would do no good to shoot the messenger, and what he wanted more than anything at that moment was for this meeting to be done so that he could find a telephone and rant at the man behind the message in a more personal manner.
Father Morrigan glanced around and nearly spilled his water trying to peer over the edge of the bed and into the corners of the room. He blushed again, and Father Prescott placed a hand on the younger man’s arm to calm him.
Father Morrigan met his gaze gratefully, and then asked, “Do you have my things? My briefcase?”
Father Prescott leaned down. The duffle bag and the briefcase both rested against the foot of the bed, out of Father Morrigan’s sight. Father Prescott lifted the leather case and placed it gently across Father Morrigan’s lap.
Still flustered, and more than a little weak and dizzy, Brian fumbled open the clasps and lifted the lid. He rummaged around inside for a few moments, pulling out files and pushing things aside, one by one, until he drew forth a long, slender chain. From the bottom, a leather pouch dangled. He turned, holding this up to Father Prescott with a trembling hand.
“He said that I should give you this,” the young priest said. “He said that you’d understand.”
Father Prescott caught sight of the pouch, and he froze. His features went momentarily slack, and he slumped back heavily in his chair.
Father Morrigan saw the reaction the object in his hand had caused and leaned forward in alarm
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
Father Prescott didn’t hear him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, as memories shifted up from the depths to cloud the moment. They were so clear that he could smell the polished wood and rich leather of Cardinal O’Brien’s office.
Across the desk, Cardinal O’Brien sat, holding the slender chain, the pouch dangling from it and spinning in a lazy circle over the heavy blotter. Father Prescott watched, mesmerized. He reached out a hand and gently stroked the soft pouch in wonder.
“What is it?” he asked?
“This,” Cardinal O’Brien answered, “Don, is the one thing I’ve never been able to explain. This is the one miracle, in all my time in the Church that I cannot say – is not . Rather, this is a reminder of that miracle. I keep it close to me, and when there are moments of doubt, I hold it – and I dream about it.”
Father Prescott held the pouch in his hand gently, entranced. He wanted to open it, but to do so without O’Brien’s bidding was unthinkable.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“One day,” O’Brien replied, “perhaps you will answer that question for me. One day after you have found your own miracles.”
The Cardinal withdrew the chain, slipped the pouch into the folds of his vestments, and reached out with his free hand. He tapped Father Darren Prescott directly over his heart, and said.
“When you have found your own miracles, and resolved them . . . here.”
The memory dissolved. Father Prescott shook his head and sat up straight. The small room in the middle of the Peruvian jungle, and Father Morrigan’s confused, concerned face, slid back into focus.
Father Prescott reached out and stroked the pouch. He cupped his hand and Father Morrigan dropped the bag into it, letting the chain pour
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