There comes a point in every life, well maybe many points depending on your life, when you are suddenly hit by a realization that changes your whole view of things, or at least of some things. To those who believe, these can be “epiphanies”, to the rest of us they're sometimes called “moments of truth” or “growing pains” or “crises”.
All four applied to what happened to Reverend Declan Smalls this day. Sitting in his vestry, gathering his notes for that week's sermon, ready to climb the stairs to the balcony and the refuge of St Patrick's Chapel, Declan was not prepared for Donna, the church secretary to approach, even though she did many times each day.
“There's a gentleman here, Reverend” she started, innocently enough, “he needs confession.” And there it was. Confession was an archaic rite that hadn't been performed in this church in more than twenty years and not by Declan himself in more than ten.
“Confession?” he repeated, sure it must be a mistake. “An older gentleman?”
“No Reverend, thirty years old perhaps, but maybe younger.”
How could this be, how could this man even know about confession? Since the amalgamation it was rarely practiced, and certainly not in person, not since the Vatican went on-line.
The early years of amalgamation had the Church perform separate services, Anglican and then Catholic, with the Associate Curate usually specializing in one or the other but as the numbers dwindled that too was lost.
Declan couldn't even remember the last time he'd read the Catholic Diocesan update, sure that if there were any Catholics still in attendance they had so lapsed as to be Anglican by practice.
He scurried now through his library looking for the correct services book and finding it, the twelfth edition of the Alternative Services Book, Catholic services guide, he collected from the dusty mahogany box the elements required and rushed off unsure what any of them really were.
Donna had led the visitor to the confessional, on the balcony with the other remnants of St Patrick's and she nodded to him that the visitor was secure in the chamber before Declan could see who it was.
Sliding into the pontiff's chamber he found the screen cover between them hard to slide so when it gave and slammed open the sound made both of them jump.
Neither spoke, Declan was hoping the visitor would know the drill but in the silence he opened the book to the marker and quickly read for his instructions, the visitor taking the additional silence as a prompt to begin.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it has been…” a breath as the visitor tried to figure it out, “eight years since my last confession.”
Ok, Declan thought, it wasn't here, it wasn't in Metro anywhere unless… “Was that on-line my son?” he began following the pattern of communication the guide directed.
“On-Line Father?” was the reply.
So he wasn't from around here, maybe out east, there were proper Catholic Churches there still, Declan couldn't hear an accent of any type but it didn't matter. “Continue my son.”
“I… there is much to confess Father”, he started, unsure where to begin.
“I would guess something recent has brought this need to light, you may start there my son”. Declan was curious what could motivate someone to this archaic act after an eight year silence. Putting the book aside he decided to simply “wing it” as the visitor obviously hadn't found flaw with his progress so far.
“I work… My new job…”, two false starts then, “I was hired to work on this project. I was hired by a group of people who had an agenda which, well, it isn't against the law, at least no written law but, at first I thought we weren't going anywhere with the idea, it seemed preposterous that we could succeed and then we did.”
“Succeed at what my son?” The suspense was killing Declan.
“The device we've built is scanning the ether, the dark matter realm and looking for things, beings that exist there as energy.” There it was out.
Declan wasn't sure he understood, “What sort of things?”
“Beings, father.”
“There are beings in the dark matter?”
“We weren't sure, at least I didn't think there were but the very first time we tried we got one”, he continued.
“What sort of beings?” Declan asked.
“First. A demon, short with fangs and horns and an awful smell but that wasn't all, they refined the search and each time we got something else, closer to our target.”
“What's your target son?”
The visitor swallowed hard, paused, then, “that's why I'm here Father, if we continue then ultimately we're going to find and they're going to try to, we're going to try to call forward… God.”
Declan stopped, looked around quickly, wondering if he were being put on, wondering if this was being recorded by some prankster from the General Synod. “No, really” he replied in disbelief.
“We got a cherub Father, second time out we got one”
“A cherub?” Declan was stunned, they didn't exist, he was sure of it. “Describe what you mean my son.”
“Short, child like, angelic, like the…”grasping for the word, “like Cupid, muscular, little wings, curly hair, the whole bit, a cherub!”
“Something that resembles a cherub”, Declan offered.
“No Father! An actual cherub, it won't eat or anything, can't speak, we've scanned it, no vocal chords, none and the brain, it doesn't look like anything human, we're still working on that one!” The visitor was quite excited now.
Declan sat there, at first unaware of the near hysteria the visitor was experiencing, trying instead to comprehend what was being described.
“Surely that is impossible my son, you must have gotten something else, a manifestation of some type, not an actual cherub.”
“No Father!” the hysteria registered to Declan now, “right after that we got a seraph!”
“An angel?” Declan exclaimed.
“An angel, only more so, the books we had, well the six wings, three sets put it on the highest order of angels, definitely a seraph.” A little calm entered his voice now.
Declan sat there, in the quiet stillness, listening to his heart, thoughts racing through his mind. How could this be possible? How is it that people had done this? People, not the church, were we really that sophisticated that we could have found heaven. Heaven?
Declan shook himself and smiled at the fact that he just now realized that he might actually believe in heaven and with that the angels of heaven and if so then the trinity. Then God did exist, and these people had found a way to call to him, to get him to visit.
“I must know more about this my son.” He started.
“What? No Father, I don't think that's a good idea, I don't think my bosses would approve.” A different panic edged in his voice but Declan was calm, calm enough for the both of them.
“Do you have someone from the Church in residence for this project?” he asked.
“No Father, it's not a church project”, was the reply.
“I am offering myself my son. This idea is most refreshing and if you are with people capable of reaching into Heaven then don't you think it would be prudent to have someone present with knowledge of the subject, an ambassador to those you call forth?”
The visitor paused it did make sense. The reasoning was just.
“It would go a long way to your penitence for this my son.” Declan added but the visitor's crisis hadn't come from the 'what' but the 'why'.
“Are you saying Father that it is acceptable for us to be trying to bring God forward, to make him appear before us?” he asked.
“I don't know. I suspect that if God does not wish to come forward then nothing we do will make it happen, therefore if He does appear it must be part of His plan.” This sounded proper to Declan, why did he feel like a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders?
“I…” the visitor was starting to sound like an old motor, “I don't know Father.”
“You should ask those in charge, I'm willing to participate or simply observe, I am intrigued by this myself,” a pause, “ask for me, my son, it may help ease your turmoil.”
The visitor sat there a moment and then nodded. “Alright Father, I will ask.”
Declan opened the text, glanced at the words, eager to end this session, giddy at the prospect of being there, meeting God, meeting GOD. He rushed through the culmination of the confessional experience and sent the visitor on his way, well not entirely.
On hearing the visitor's steps down the stairs Declan exited the confessional and made his way to base of the giant stained glass wall that presided over the balcony of St Patrick's Chapel. He watched through the least opaque of the glass to see what the visitor had looked like and more importantly where he was headed.
As quickly as he could he rushed down the stairs, removing his cloak and discarding it on the furthest back of the pews so he could follow, in his black suit, white collar removed, button taken down.
His hasty attempt to look obscure was not in vain, black was a very popular color still and the all black he wore blended well with only the cut and style giving him away somewhat as a man out of step with the times. Declan was forced to rush to keep the visitor in sight, around corners, across busy intersections, staying back as much as possible lest he be noticed but never losing sight.
All the way across the neighborhood and very nearly downtown but thankfully not too far, thankfully not too near the rough zones. Declan followed until he saw the visitor enter the CONEDEX building and then stopped and stared at the nondescript glass and steel box, his new cathedral.
He walked past it and then started around back, looking for another entrance, a way in, a way to his new sanctuary.
So intent on finding his way inside he was that Declan did not hear the chains rattling across the broken pavement of the back alley, or the footsteps that went with it, until it was too close and too late.
“Give us your Moneycard old man” said the voice behind him.
Declan turned in surprise to see four youths, three females and one male. They looked at him coldly, Declan stared back in fright. Their hair, scraggy and hacked, extreme colors, their skin grey or white, make-up he hoped for this wasn't natural.
The boy, younger looking than the rest, anemic, in a stupor wore a black leather jacket too small for his frame, a beat up pair of old army boots one size too big and nothing more than a pair of grey underpants which hung on his scrawny white legs.
The girls were in torn clothes, beaten blue jean jackets some with a sleeve torn off and an odd assortment of layered clothes all showing signs of repeated distress from the fights they entertained.
The leader wore eyeliner, thick and heavy around her face, like the mask of a raccoon and a short black skirt that vaguely looked like a school uniform. She tossed the silver chain she held, that ran to the nose ring of the scruffy anemic young boy she led, off to another as she closed in further on Declan.
“Your Moneycard, now!” she bellowed and they echoed as the leader stepped closer. Panicked Declan turned to run but it was a blind alley, he bolted as best his fifty year old frame could for one of the metal doors on the nearest building unsure now which building it was.
Before his hand could come hard against the metal she had kicked his knees out from him. Before his hand could come to the bleeding wound on his forehead she knocked the wind out of him. Before his hand could stop shaking long enough to stop her she'd removed his collar from his pocket, found no Moneycard and realized what she'd done.
“Fuck, it's a priest!” she yelped dropping the collar like it was contaminated. She kicked him hard in the back and again in the side and repeatedly he was struck as her friends joined in. He kept his arms around his head, his hands bloody from their attempts to claw at his face, from the rocks they threw and it stayed that way until the pain grew too much and he blacked out to the gentle sound of rain falling on him.
