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Again, the voice: stop now, or you'll never go back again.
The voice grew stronger, screaming in his mind, blocking out anything else.
With a tremendous effort of will, he broke away from the loups-garous, screaming his denial of the
power, and the transformation instantly left him.
As he ran from the clearing, he looked back just once to see Zizi, tears staining her changed face as she
watched him go. He felt that, of all he was leaving behind, she would have been the most precious to him.
He saw all of them them change and embrace, drinking in the power of the moon and of each other, and
was not surprised to see Georgiana there, reaching for Zizi to offer solace. He now understood what
Georgiana had done so that she could live with herself and her curse, and he couldn't blame her for it.
Georgiana looked toward Andrew, then turned away sadly.
He was only a few yards away, but was as lost to them as one who had wandered to eternal distances.
But before he left, in a confusion and a desire and a grief he couldn't understand, he watched the
loups-garous dance on Bayou Goula.
Chapter Twenty-One
Andrew couldn't put Bishop Acker off any longer. He should have been assigned to a regular parish by
now, but the bishop had been very understanding since Johanna's death, giving Andrew time to put the
family affairs in order.
Bishop Acker was relieved to see him. "Andrew, we have to think of a good place for you," he said.
"You'll be glad to hear that I've had several requests for your services as curate. Father Moore wants
you for St. Timothy's, and frankly, I agree. You came out of that parish and you understand how it
works."
Andrew shivered at the thought. Ministering to people who knew him, or thought they knew him, was
just too hypocritical. Damn! The whole thing was wrong: his even being here about to accept an
assignment was a mistake. He thought he could handle it, thought that what Walter wrote was true, that
his faith would save him. Now he wasn't sure about anything.
He was silent for so long that the bishop was puzzled. "Is there some problem with St. Timothy's?"
"I can't do it, Father," he said slowly. "I wouldn't be a good priest, not just for St. Timothy's& for
anyone. Not even for myself."
"Andrew, what is this?" the bishop asked kindly, "I know some terrible things have happened to you
recently. Your mother's situation saddened us all. But that's the sort of thing that makes you strong, that
teaches you."
When Andrew started to speak, the words weren't what he'd planned. They just burst forth from
someplace in his soul that wouldn't contain them any longer. He'd meant to tell the bishop the truth of his
situation and take whatever consequences came of it, but when he heard what he was actually saying, he
sensed that his words were deeper truth than he had known was in him. He didn't have to confess his
lycanthropy. It was only the manifestation of a deeper problem.
"If I'd been a good priest," he said with intensity, "all this would never have happened to me. But I've
failed my faith in some fundamental way; there's some crippling flaw that's been there from the beginning."
The bishop had never expected a confession like this. He had heard them from other priests, but this one
had always seemed above that self-doubt. He kept his voice level and quiet, not wanting to intrude too
much on what was obviously an outpouring from the heart. "And what makes you think that?"
Andrew took a deep breath, trying to find the words he'd hidden for so long.
"I'm an arrogant man, Father," he said, "and I've never come to terms with that. It was the intellectual
cocoon of the church I loved, the study of philosophy and theology, the discussions, the debates, the kind
of atmosphere I found in the seminary. But as the time came for me to leave that cocoon, I realized that I
was going to have to deal with people, not ideas, and I wasn't prepared for it. I was afraid they'd all find
out what a fraud I am. Me, with my sheltered rich boy's life; what did I ever know about problems? If I
had one, someone would take care of it. And suddenly I'm expected to tell everyone else how to deal
with their troubles? Father, who am I to judge anyone?"
"We don't judge. It's for God to judge, the priest is only the intermediary. Andrew, you don't need
omniscient wisdom. All you need is compassion."
"Once, when I was about thirteen," Andrew said, "I started locking myself in my room every night with a
dirty magazine. Maybe it wasn't my first brush with guilty pleasures but it was sure as hell the finest. Then
I became convinced my soul was damned forever. I was concerned about it, but not concerned enough
to stop doing it. Going to confession was out of the question because I was sure that Father Moore
would know who I was and would never look at me the same way again. I just knew that I was in mortal
sin, and I couldn't take communion unless I'd been to confession, so I made excuses not to take
communion. Eventually, the whole thing was killing me so much that I just had to get out from under it. So
a week later, I found myself in the confessional, sweating bullets.
"I had this whole long list of minor sins I'd made up just to avoid getting to the real one. I figured I'd slip
the masturbation thing into the middle and he'd slide right past it. I actually thought that this was an
original idea. It seemed to work, though; Father Moore absolved me and assigned me a penance and I
was home free.
"But just as I was about to slide out the door for a clean getaway, I heard him say very clearly, 'It's
normal, you know. People your age are just curious and you're going through a lot of changes. The thing
is not to get so guilty that you let it keep you away from God. I want you to try and control yourself, but
remember: you'll get over it.' "
Andrew sighed. "Okay. So it wasn't exactly canon law, but I left there immensely relieved. Father Moore
did it so well, and I still don't understand how he did it. We're all good people, Father, convinced that
our unthinking little sins are going to do us in. Father Moore put things in perspective and let us believe
that we're better people than we give ourselves credit for. He understood trouble. He understood the
simple, everyday confusion involved in just trying to live from moment to moment. And he understood
pain. I never did."
The bishop leaned back a little and regarded Andrew. "Well, you certainly understand it now, don't you?
Your father's suicide, your mother's illness and death. You can't tell me that you haven't learned
something from having survived all that."
"I suppose I have. But I desperately want to be the kind of priest Father Moore is, and I see now that I'll
never make it."
"No. You probably won't. However, you could be a better one, or maybe just a different one. This is
like any other job, Andrew; we bring to it what resources we have available. Father Moore gave you
what you needed because he's the kind of man he is. For all you know, someone's waiting for what only
you can give.
"You're a good man, Andrew. If you weren't, this issue of ethics wouldn't bother you so much. I've [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]