FRANKS, Bill Page 6
For several minutes, the parishioners sat, looking in the direction of where the two priests had stood, each feeling the strange compelling aura of Brother Saviour. Then, one of the women stood and, with head bowed respectfully, shuffled along to the narrow benches arranged before the booths.
She went immediately to booth two, entered and knelt. In front of her was a crucifix bearing a plaster model of Jesus, draped with injured hands nailed to the cross, crown of thorns above thin trickles of blood that covered the forehead, an incredibly sad expression in the eyes; eyes that looked into the very soul of the sinner before Him. The cruel, open wound in the side looked so real, it was sure to bleed soon.
Mary Stewart, bowed her head again, unable to take the penetrating eyes, as she clasped her hands, leaning them on the small shelf placed beneath the crucifix. She was a wicked sinner, not fit to be in the presence of her Saviour. Her eye caught the slight movement of the shadowy figure to her right, behind the grey, closely meshed screen. Another presence began to flow through her, an almost tangible sensation. Brother Ignatious Saviour had turned to her, unable to see the miserable woman clearly, but his effect a touch more pronounced than that of the plaster figure on the wall. Father. Father. Please. Take me! Do as you will! Rape me! Scourge me! Cover me with your blessing! Mary was shocked at the terrible thoughts that had entered her mind – without knocking!
“Yes, my child.” The warm, comforting voice of the Jesuit floated to her. “I will hear your confession.”
Mary clutched the string of Rosary Beads tightly, so much so that they were in danger of snapping. She blessed herself, making a hurried and practiced sign of the cross, kissing the small silver crucifix that dangled from the end.
“Father forgive me, for I have sinned,” she began, using the words drummed into her from early childhood. “I am a sinner, an unworthy and wretched person.”
“We are all sinners, my daughter. God is all forgiving. You should not fear his wrath; it will not touch you. He has knowledge of all the frailties of Man.” The soothing voice melted over Mary. “Tell me now; in what way have you sinned?”
Mary had never before felt so able to speak; to confess her innermost secrets. “Father, I am 40 years old and am happily married. Married for twenty-three years - no children, unfortunately. I have never been unfaithful and, as far as I know, neither has my husband, Michael.”
“As it should be,” interposed the Jesuit.
“Yes, Father. Quite. But…. but.” Mary paused. It was a struggle to admit her sin. She took a deep breath. This man would wring everything from her. “Well. Last week, I had a visit from an old friend. Someone I had worked with in a Bank before she left to go with her parents to live in Worcestershire. We were always very close; she sometimes would come out dancing or whatever, with Michael and myself.”
“Go on, child.”
Outside the confessional, the short pew had filled with five other persons, four of which were female, waiting patiently to tell the holy man of their transgressions. Under the pretext of deep prayer, eyes closed, heads bowed, hands clasped, to a person their ears were straining to catch the low but audible words of the unsuspecting Mary. What unspeakable thing has she done?
Mary went on: “Last Wednesday…. no it would be Thursday; I know it was Thursday, as that’s the day I check my Lottery ticket. I don’t want to know immediately, if I’m a winner. I’d checked it with Jacqui, that’s my friend, and I didn’t win. Someone wins every time so…”
“Yes. But what do you wish to confess?” The voice gentle.
“Sorry. I do tend to go on a bit.” Mary continued: “Well. We had had a couple of glasses of red wine – just two each and were sitting close to each other on the settee, when Jacqui put an arm around me and hugged me to her. I thought she was just being naturally affectionate, us being old friends and that.” She paused, getting to the nub of the matter. “When I turned to her, she…she…well, she kissed me!”
“In what way did she do that?”
“In a more than friendly way!” Mary swallowed. “She, well…you know…she gave me a…a lover’s kiss. Yes. She pulled me to her and…Oh, I feel awful telling you this.”
“To obtain God’s forgiveness, you must tell all. You cannot hide anything from Him. He already knows but it is necessary for salvation that you admit it to Him, through me, His humble servant.” The warm, soothing voice sounded totally calm, completely unshocked.
“She pushed her tongue into my mouth,” she mumbled.
“Speak up, please.” Mary repeated the sentence.
“She pulled me to her and began to fondle me, Father. Fondle me in private places.”
“Well, my child, you cannot be seen to have sinned when this act was perpetrated by your friend, against your will and without warning.”
The poor woman blushed crimson, her cheeks aflame. The eyes of the Saviour bore into her. “But, Father. I responded!” She allowed a silence, waiting for the bellowing admonishment.
“When you say you responded, you did back what she was doing to you?” came the calm response.
“Yes, Father. I responded in kind. And, the thing is, I enjoyed it!”
The Jesuit spoke, still calm, unhurried: “You are forty years old, my daughter, and you will have looked back on your life. No matter how contented that life may have been, you will have felt that your freshness is beginning to pass. You will feel less attractive to the male; not quite as active as you used to be; not as quick of mind and nimbleness.”
Mary listened attentively, as did the awaiting sinners, straining their ears to the limit.
“This is a natural reaction when women reach that time in their lives. You are in the company of thousands in the same turmoil. It is like starting to – what term would you use? Court. Is that it?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued: “ You would be courting again. Young love: fresh, open and pleasant. My child, good though that may now feel, it is probably not your true self. You are human and simply reacting in a human way. God will not punish you for that. However, this is not the place to receive my fullest advice.” The Jesuit then lowered his voice a tone, effectively preventing the listeners from hearing what he now said.
“I would like to meet you privately, my child; away from here. Somewhere where your mind can relax; take in the surroundings of nature.”
Mary’s interest was aroused. “Yes, Father?”
The voice came to her like a soft breeze whisping through a tunnel. “Is there a place nearby where we can meet? Somewhere in the countryside,” he said. “With the sounds of birds, the breeze and the scent of flowers? God’s little trinkets.”
Mary knew just the place. “Yes, Father. About three miles south of here, there is a beautiful little copse.” She spoke in a voice little above a whisper. “It lies a little off the main path and the area is well signposted. It’s called Bluebell Dell. It is gorgeous.” Mary’s eyes were alight her embarrassment now vanished. “I could go there on Wednesday next, if that’s okay with you. I will have a free day then.”
“Yes. That will be fine. Could we make it around nine-thirty in the morning?”
“Yes. Yes. Whatever time is best.” Mary was now eager – another courtship, a secret tryst!
“Do not let anyone know of this, my daughter. Unfortunately, in this day and age, people are overly suspicious; see bad in everything.”
“Oh, Father, I won’t. No, no I won’t!” She wanted to please. She wanted to feel again the holy experience that was even now cocooning her body. Take me! Rape me! Abuse me! Scourge me! The thoughts flashed through her mind again – and she was not ashamed. Through the near-trance, she heard her penance announced. “Four Hail Mary’s and the Rosary once. Go in peace.”
Mary now looked fearlessly at the plaster crucifix. It’s eyes were still sad, but no longer searching her soul. She blessed herself, noting the tiny trickle of blood that seeped from both her hands where she had gripped the beads too tightly, and left the confessional.
Mary then passed an attractive woman, clothed in a rather inappropriate red dress that clung to her, pronouncing every curve. She would be around thirty years of age. The lush, dark hair swung to one side as she looked Mary full in the face. The woman was smiling and looking deeply into her. The look was unmistakable. She was interested in the same way as had been her friend, Jacqui.
Squeezing past the woman, undeniably enjoying the closeness of the flesh as their bodies were pressed together, Mary at last reached the aisle. She moved to a vacant pew and knelt to carry out her penance.
CHAPTER NINE.
That evening, back in his motor home, having enjoyed a thoroughly satisfying meal with Father Rafferty, Ignatious settled down to ponder the words of wisdom and advice he was to give to the wretched sinner whom he had arranged to meet. He lay, fully clothed on the comfortable bed and closed his eyes.
He would listen again to the woman’s feelings and obtain the real truth from her. Her experience would be lodged in his brain, filed in its own compartment, contributing to the unending dossier of life that he had assembled through the years. His advice would be absolutely correct; he never made mistakes in that department. His holy presence would render the sinner incapable of any resistance to him or his words. She would be comforted, forgiven, absolved. He would suggest that, as she had encountered lesbian feelings, she should make contact with the holy Virgin Mary; confide in Her, accept Her embrace. Then he would send the woman to Her.
After an hour of pondering and considering options, Ignatious undressed and lay, naked, beneath the single cotton sheet. The night was sultry and sweat broke out over his body. Again, he closed his eyes, tenderly squeezing his manhood, enjoying the pleasantness. He did not see this as sinful, it was a natural action and not to be degraded into such a category, as The Church so easily did.
He did not sleep immediately as his mind wandered. Back, back in time to the Mission he had been selected for, under the guidance of the experienced priest, Father Jonathan Peter Christian, a tough, 43 year-old veteran.
Arriving in Brazil by air, the small group, consisting of four men and two women, were welcomed by a priest, Father Vincento Aloise, who drove them in a rickety, ancient truck, to his church nearby. They sat on roughly made wooden benches that had been fitted down each side of the vehicle, and the canvas covering flapped about wildly as they travelled, due to it being rotted with age and years of heavy rain. The amount of canvas remaining would offer no protection against the elements and would have been better removed.
After being introduced to the two other priests of the parish, whom they met lounging against the church entrance, both smoking long, dark coloured cigarettes of an unknown brand, they were ushered into Father Aloise’s private quarters. The group was a little surprised at the good size and cleanliness of the place, somehow expecting wooden seats on a straw and dirt floor. Why, no one could have explained. The exception to this view was Father Christian, who had visited this church on four previous occasions.
After a very good, wholesome meal, the accommodation was sorted. The men shared an adequate apartment, situated in the rear yard of the church, whilst the two nuns were placed in a smaller apartment in the same courtyard.
The two who formed the group apart from Christian and Saviour, were Father Thomas Lassiter, a young man of twenty-three years, who hailed from Australia, and Father Gerard Ottomier, an American from Detroit, thirty years of age.
Sister Evangelica, a young Englishwoman of twenty-five, had been a nun for five years and this was her first sortie abroad. She had learned comprehensive medical skills and was considered to be a useful asset in the remote areas into which she was to travel. She was looking forward to the venture with eager anticipation.
Evangelica’s companion, sister Dolorita Vasquez was a nun with two years full experience. Under the severe habit, she was a pretty, dark-skinned Brazilian, 24 years old, who had gone to England for training in nursing and languages. She had passed the courses with flying colours. Like Evangelica, she was excitedly anticipating the task ahead.
At five-thirty, the following morning, a raggedly dressed young boy of about eleven years of age, ran around waking up the group so that they would not be too late in setting off on their mission up the River Amazon. The boy entered the female accommodation quite unabashed and shook the ladies vigorously until their eyes shot open. Yelling something unrecognisable to them, he shot out like a rabbit and disappeared through the now open courtyard gates.
Ignatious’s eyes opened wide but saw nothing. His body functioned but his brain was locked in a time past, in a world far away. The eyes closed again, aiding the restful period.
After a much-obstructed journey lasting half an hour, the group was aboard the ancient passenger boat; steam driven and cruising gently down the calm waters of the awesome Amazon River. It had been commissioned for the group of holy people alone that day. So near to the port, the river traffic was bustling in a seemingly disorderly fashion. The fact that there were no collisions made it clear that some semblance of order existed.
Some twenty minutes later, the party was making headway, the traffic now much lighter and the current flowing more strongly. The pilot of the craft steered into the middle of the river as it widened, giving a mini-commentary on the various sights on shore and the abundant and varied wildlife that paraded on land and in the water.
The pilot was the owner of the boat and very proud of its smooth-running engine and its well-painted exterior. A native Brazilian, Palermo De Gatzca, he was a married man who boasted twelve children and eight grandchildren. At the age of sixty-two, he was an active man in every way. His skin was a deeply burnt brown, with a majestically lined face, giving character and reflecting the experiences of his lifetime. The nut-brown eyes shone alertly from folds of flesh that, with age, were threatening to completely obscure them.
Ignatious remembered the face well; he had studied it on many occasions during the journey, trying to fathom what kind of man lay behind. The face was like an impenetrable wall. He inadvertently groaned, rolling onto his side and instantly back again, as his mind shot past the early part of the adventure, moving to the second day along the river.
They had moored against a bank protected by thick, overhanging trees overnight, sleeping under fly nets to keep away the many buzzing insects and the quieter moths.
The clouds had been building up since the early hours, it was now eleven-thirty in the morning, and had accumulated as if gathering for war. The hitherto absent wind began to blow a little stronger, then gust, then settle into a strong breeze. The clouds covered the sun and the day became dark, with a kind of greenish hue.
The small boat meandered along, still taking a middle position, as the group looked nervously at the ever-threatening sky. Thunder began to rumble, sounding many miles away and the wind picked up. The gentle rippling of the river was now choppy with larger waves rolling along intermittently. The boat began to roll with the comparatively small swell.
To the questions put to him by the more forthright of the crew, Father Lassiter, the Australian, De Gatzca would only insist that there would be no problem – the clouds would break and disperse soon and the best position for the boat was out in the middle rather than hugging the bank, where danger lurked in the form of tree roots and obstacles thrown into the water by irresponsible people.
Again Ignatious stirred, asleep but restless as the memori
es traipsed across his mind.
Plop! Plop! Thud! Plop! Spots of rain descended onto the dry wooden flooring of the boat as it bucked more violently now, the river becoming alarmingly hostile Plop, plop, plop, plop, thud, thud, faster now, heavier.
At last, De Natzca realised the vulnerability of the craft; it was like a twig thrown by a child into a fast moving stream. He decided that now was the time to steer nearer to the bank, taking note of the frightened and anxious expressions on his passenger’s faces as he turned the wheel.
At that moment, an almighty clap of thunder rent the air, quickly followed by a flash of sheet lightning that lit up the boat and the cringing people hanging desperately onto the brass side rails. The screams of the females were immediately drowned by a roll of thunder, even louder than the last as the Gods screeched their venom at the audacity of the feeble humans who were daring to challenge their great power.
The bolt of lightning that spat at the boat crackled down in a vicious hiss. The head of Palermo De Natzca literally turned to stone as the charge speared through his body, striking at the tiny bald patch at the rear of his head; a patch that he took great lengths to hide with a skilful combing of the tightly-curled hair. The hair disappeared in a puff of smoke.
The shocked missionaries looked on, mouths agape, taking in the electric smell that pervaded the air around them. Palermo’s lifeless body was draped over the wheel, arms encircling it as if in protection, holding it in its turning position. The curve of the boat’s route took it broadside on to the freak weather, the wind gusting mightily in gale force with rain hurtling horizontally. In a visually stunning movement, the boat rocked violently, righted itself and then flew from the broiling water, flying six feet into the air before spinning like a barrel and crashing into a clump of trees on the river’s edge and smashing into many pieces, the stern, almost complete, skimming into the centre of the river to hurtle downstream.