“He’s been sitting there since this afternoon, Father.” Simon said in a hushed voice, peering out into the nave at the odd young man in the fourth pew from the front, on the left. “Just sitting there and staring up at the window.”

Father Reese Martinez, a tanned, whip-thin man with a fringe of wispy white hair on his balding pate gently patted the teenager on his rounded shoulder. Simon was a good boy, if prone to an extra piece of cheesecake every now and again and a flair for the dramatic. “I’ll go talk to him Simon. You finish sweeping out the chancel and then gather the robes for tonight’s rehearsal. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

A relatively new church, St. Catherine’s was constructed in 1972 in the somewhat dubious area called Greenbriar. It was hoped by the city fathers (and the California Arch-Diocese), that through various outreach programs and community organization efforts, the neighboring areas (including Freetown) could be rejuvenated and the troubled souls within them brought into the light. There have been quite a few over the years that the church has helped to be fair – but not nearly enough.

Not by a long shot.

But she continues to try, and for all these years Father Reese Martinez, (or Father Reese, as he likes to be called), has been the man trying to assist her in her noble endeavor. The old priest squinted through his rimless glasses out at the man in the pews as Simon moved past him and across the raised platform that contained the polished dark oak of the altar. Simon shot one more glance at their odd parishioner before disappearing into the recess of the church on his quest for broom and robes.

The parishioner was one of about twelve people scattered throughout the pews, a young man with a mop of jet black hair and a narrow, pale face. He was wearing an odd sort of jacket over a brown t-shirt, the jacket looked almost military, or perhaps even something that band leader would wear. It was dark blue, with shiny brass buttons down the front, and on the cuffs were stripes done in yellow: three on each cuff. The man’s long fingers were gripping the pew back in front of him, and even from where he was standing, the priest could see that the grip was very tight indeed.

The man’s narrow jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on the stained glass window behind and to the left of the altar. The glass depicted an image of the Virgin, her lovely face bent down as she gazed serenely at the cloth-wrapped Babe in her arms. Father Reese clasped his hands behind him and walked down towards the young man, his face settling automatically into an expression of warmth and welcome.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, sitting down next to the young man and turning sidewise in the pew to face him. “My name is Father Reese Martinez, and I’d like to welcome you to our Church.” The priest took in the faded white painters pants and worn black sneakers; tie that to the jacket and shirt and you had obvious handouts that seemed to indicate that this man was another of the city’s homeless, most likely come in to seek some warmth and comfort.

And yet…

“Son, did you hear me?” the priest enquired softly, placing a hand gently on the others forearm.

“Permissum mihi exsisto haud proximus, in Mortis somnium regnum,” the man replied in flawless, if extremely accented Latin, the pale face remained turned towards the window, the brown eyes locked on the image of the Virgin. The man’s arm was trembling inside the jacket; the priest could feel the tightness of the muscle beneath his fingers.

“You speak Latin!” The surprise was evident in Reese’s voice.

“Permissum mihi quoque, gero Talis delibero dissimulo,” the man replied. His voice was calm, almost liquid, the Latin falling from his lips smoothly, like old Scotch. “Ratâ€s amiculum, crowskin, crux crucis Stabulaus, In a agri, Facio ut ventus praesto Haud nearer—

The priest tilted his head as he tried to translate what he was hearing. It didn’t make sense… well, the words were clear, but they weren’t relevant to what Reese was asking this stranger sitting silently next to him. “Acting like the wind?” the priest asked, his own internal translations taking longer (and being far more difficult) than he would have liked. “Son, what are you trying to tell me?”

“Non ut denique placitum in crepusculum regnum,” now the man turned to look at him, his slender eyebrows drawn down, blue eyes narrowed in… anger?

“Is est silenti etc terra
Is est cactus terra
Hic calx statua
Es sublimis , hic they suscipio
litania of a mortuus man’s manus manus
Sub micans et a pallidus astrum”

The old priest blinked, light flashing off his lenses as he drew back from the heated expression and strange words from the man sitting next to him, releasing his arm as he did so. The man in turn released the pew before him and half-turned to face the priest, holding up his thin pale hands before him, and between the two men, presenting them as if for inspection.

“The supplication of a dead man’s hand, Father,” he said. “How does our Church view such things, I ask you?” There *was* anger in his voice, but it didn’t feel as though that anger were directed at Reese. “I have performed the rites; I have calmed the sick and the dying and baptized the newly born. I have stood by as men who said they did God’s will did not, and I did nothing because that was what was expected of someone of my station.”

The man’s eyes were burning; sapphire drills that bore into the wide surprised gaze of the priests. But his voice never rose, the anger stayed there behind the eyes somehow, never got farther than that. The stranger jerked a thumb back at the stained glass image of the Virgin. “How many hours did I spend on my knees, praying, begging, and beseeching some intervention for all those people? How many died because we chose to believe instead of to act?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Reese said calmly, blinking up into that glacial gaze. “Are you a seminary student? Has something happened at the,” Reese began, but the stranger abruptly stood, a smile dancing at the thin lips though the eyes still burned.

“I have died, I have been reborn,” he said softly, turning in place to face the back of the nave. “And I find that the Church, and its power, has no hold over me.” He shook his head. “If only we had known… if only we had chosen differently.”

He turned his head and regarded the old man next to him silently for a moment. “You are a man of this time, of this place. And I can see that you, unlike me, are a man or action as well as of faith. Truly, your flock is blessed.” He stepped forward then, moving through the stained wood of the pew in front of him like it was air.

And he continued to move forward, striding through pew after pew, soft purple light flickering upon the wood as he did so, padding silent as a cat upon the worn red carpeting.

Reese stood, mouth open, hands raised as if to stop the stranger from going.

“In nomine patri, es spiritu sancti, amen,” he heard the stranger intone as he continued to move through the pews, and sometimes even through a startled parishioner. Someone screamed, the sound echoing up into the vaulted golden rafters. As the odd man reached the end of the central aisle, he dipped his fingers into one of the fonts of water that stood to each side of the inner doors and crossed himself. He turned then, looking first back at Reese, then once more at the image of the Virgin. He shook his head once more, and then was gone.

TRANSLATION:

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.