Читать книгу Everyday Ghosts - James Morrison - Страница 6

For a long time Father Gabriel’s drinking had given his sermons a lighthearted air. He read from the Book of Psalms or the Song of Songs and giggled and blushed from time to time. Every so often came a dry day, when his manner turned gruff and he took to Leviticus. He seemed to find it calming. So much of that book was plain common sense. Who needed to be told to wash the blood out of clothes, or that something became unclean if a dead body fell on it? What sort of creature would desire most of what was forbidden anyway? Only one line warned against strong wine. True, that was on pain of death, but there were whole pages against eating animal fat. Besides, drink was only frowned on in the meeting tent, the book said. So the path to virtue seemed easy to tread. Keep your things clear of falling corpses and stay out of tents. With such logic, it was no time at all before Father Gabriel’s good humor was restored.

But things were changing. The bad days came more often. Even after a nip or two, Father Gabriel’s mood was still dark. It was hard to tell the difference between when he was talking about heaven and when he was talking about hell. His sermons grew less considered. He seemed to be making them up as he went along. He would start by saying, “What prittle-prattle should we go on about today?” Even though he did not seem interested in what he was saying himself, he demanded full attention. In better days he had overlooked fidgeting. Now the slightest twitch among his listeners stopped him cold, and he would glare at the offender until all motion ceased. As a result, services went on twice as long as before. This in turn doubled the chance of sneezes or yawns, which sent Father Gabriel into a rage, which meant even more time. It was a vicious circle.

Brother Walter took the brunt of it. He was nervous and restless by nature. Even in the best of times he had trouble sitting still for long. To make matters worse, he had hay fever in every season and a terrible fear and hatred of ants. He understood that he was supposed to love all creation, and he thought he managed this as well as possible. But he could not pretend to love the ants. He loathed them. They seemed drawn to him, though. They were always crawling all over him at the most awkward moments. The minute he felt the telltale prickle on his skin he flew into a fit. He couldn’t help it. He’d leap and moan and flap his arms, his robe flying, and he’d run up and down the halls screaming, or roll on the floor rubbing at himself until he was sure the ants were gone. Afterward, there were never any traces of them, and some ofWalter’s less generous brothers had been heard to doubt that they were ever there in the first place. But since these fits happened many times a week, everyone had gotten used to them. Whether during meals or in prayer or at work, Brother Walter might jump up and go into one of his mad jigs, or hurl himself to the floor and wriggle about, or go tearing past in a frenzy at any minute, and nobody would bat an eye.

Father Gabriel too had taken all this in stride in the past, but no more. Now Brother Walter sat in fear near the entry-way at the back of the church, his head bowed. This was a suitable posture for the occasion, and he hoped everyone thought he was praying. What he was really doing was scanning the ground around him for ants. He thought if he saw them coming he could squish them underfoot, without moving too much, before they started crawling up his leg. So far it was working. He had not detected any ants, but neither had he jumped up screaming during mass, not for days. This was a relief because the last time, Father Gabriel had become so furious that he had taken several names in vain and pounded on the altar so hard that a chalice fell off.

There was still the matter of Brother Walter’s hay fever. To keep from sneezing, he held his breath most of the time Father Gabriel spoke. By the end he felt very light in the head, but he found he could get through it. It must have added up, though. Day by day, the dizzy feeling got worse, until one morning, as soon as the sermon began, Brother Walter saw swarms of little stars flickering in front of his eyes. Before he could take a breath, he was out cold. He slumped from his pew. Everyone turned to look. At the front of the church, Father Gabriel stopped in his tracks, anger bursting in his face. They all waited for the fit to start, but Brother Walter just lay there in the entry where he had fallen, stretched out across the floor, still as any stone. Father Gabriel cleared his throat. “Brother Walter,” he said, “this is a definite improvement. However, it is still a disruption. Therefore, I find fault in you. Ten Hail Marys.”