A Second Visit to the Priest

This excerpt first appeared in Ligeia Magazine in May, 2023. As the site is no longer online, I am reposting it here.

GLANTZ is now available from Equus Press. You can order a copy here.

Glantz stood in the long grey shadows of the hall, heavy lidded and, himself, all listing as though he were asleep on his feet. The house was silent. He had been told to wait and he was waiting, lulled by the gloom and his rake of pints, whose effects had drawn, or appeared to have anyway, some manner of self he could comfortably assume from deep below the surface of his nominal expressions; in his movements, in the tenor of his breath, from some hidden and innocent cranny within, a man emerged who could mutely smile and, amenable to all, guide the drifting vessel of his bulk pacifically through the thinning evening air, through the gloom, to the long grey shadows of the old priest’s home, there to wait, just as he had been told to, for the sister to come and speak to him.

With a hand against the dark wood of the spandrel, he turned and followed the stair as it rose with its wide shallow steps, hooking around and over his head, punctuating the question on which he might have chewed as to from which direction the nun would appear. He had, as far as memory serves, been told to wait this way before, but never for the arrival of somebody else, never for the Mother Superior.

As on his previous visit, there were no lights lighting the hall, the only illumination coming from the tall, narrow window on the stair’s first landing, before it wound back around over Glantz’s head, continuing on to the building’s upper floors. Glantz angled his eyes towards the window, the lenses of his glasses catching the sky.

From the banister guarding the landing, two balusters were missing, the splintered shard of one, like a pointed tooth, remained in place, lending their absence a sinister aspect, intimating force and violence.

As Glantz, as though in contemplation of the breach, stood with his face raised up towards it, the senior sister approached from behind. A shorter nun, whom Glantz had previously encountered, was beside her; both were wearing expressions of doleful concern.

“Mr Glantz,” the Mother Superior began, “if you would follow me.”

“I’m here to see Father Lorqan,” he slurred. “I’m here for making, to make absolution.”

She smiled tightly in response, the cast of her eyes still sorrowful. “Sister,” she spoke to the woman beside her, “perhaps you might prepare some tea?” The smaller nun passed Glantz, scuttling towards the back of the house. The other, with a slow and graceful stride, approached the room in which, as far as Glantz had ever known, was where Fr Lorqan received his guests. They stopped outside the open door.

“You were a true friend to our dear Lorqan.” She spoke gently, in a calming voice, though making no effort to go unheard were the priest in his armchair to have been listening. “I’m afraid he has not been doing terribly well. We had thought he might have contacted you, but it appears not.”

Glantz nodded deeply into his chins, a belch, perhaps, supressed.

“We have it on reliable authority that he hears and understands what is said to him, but I’m afraid he’s no longer able to respond. The damage done to his vocal cords makes speaking impossible. He may nod or shake his head, he may gesture, but don’t be aggrieved if he doesn’t. That a man who was once so eloquent, fiery, even, if I may concede that, is reduced to such muteness is a pity indeed. But such are the ways of the Lord.” She sighed. “Our brother Lorqan—” her voice caught in her throat.

“His appearance too may cause some distress. He has lost weight. As you can imagine, his eating has been no less impacted by the damage the rope, such as it was, the sheet, to speak precisely, did to his neck. Beyond that, I must also warn you about his eyes. In the force of the fall, not impact, exactly—how to explain. I’m sorry. The snap of the—as it bit, to put it crudely, Father Lorqan’s retinas detached. Though his eyes are open, I’m afraid that he’s quite blind.”

Glantz looked back towards the missing balusters, then turned to the nun: “Did he say— Did he explain?”

“We found nothing among his belongings that offered any kind of explanation. No “note”, so to speak. We had been aware of his general demeanour in the days and weeks before. I could even say in the months and years. Father Lorqan, as I’m sure you know, was prone to his moods. But no. There was no warning. No indication as to what, in particular, set his mind to that course of action. We can only be grateful that the Lord intervened to save him. Had the banister not broken—”

Glantz frowned. He took off his glasses and rubbed his bleary eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He pressed the knuckles of a fist into his forehead.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way, by surprise. Had we known to contact you—”

Glantz stood with his head bowed.

“I’m certain it will do him some good that you came, regardless,” the nun went on. “If you might permit me to ask that, after you’ve concluded your visit, you will tell Sister Moira to inform me. As far as we are aware, Lorqan has no family, no surviving relatives at all, and it would be a blessing and a comfort, I’m sure, if we were able to call on you, as a testament to his years of service to the church, when the time comes.”

“How long has he got?”

“God willing, he won’t be taken from us just yet. The bruising to his neck is healing, though slowly, and with that he will soon be eating properly again. There is still some hope that some degree of speech might return. His sight, unfortunately, will not recover.”

“He wanted to die,” said Glantz.

“And we can offer thanks to God in prayer that this errant impulse was forestalled.”

The Mother Superior bowed ever so slightly, as though in recognition of the workings of the Lord, her eyes fixed on Glantz looking for his accord. None forthcoming, she continued, steely.

“Lifting Father Lorqan up in our intentions, showing, through our companionship, that faith in the Lord can still offer salvation, that is our work now, that is our task. You will pray for him, I’m sure, as we all have. It is a tribute to him, our brother Lorqan, to remain with him in his suffering, and keep him in our prayers.

“Here is Sister Moira with the tea. I will leave you to your visit.”

Sr Moira passed between Glantz and the Mother Superior and entered the drawing room with a single cup and saucer in her hands. Glantz would have heard her setting it down. She emerged having not said a word to the priest. The two nuns stood side by side.

“Do make sure to come and see me before you leave,” the Mother Superior repeated, her hands entwined. Sr Moira looked Glantz up and down.

As Glantz entered, the room would have looked as it always did: the heavy curtains drawn, light cast from the heavily shaded lamp alone, fire meagre in the grate; the plush and velour of antique furniture, the carpet, threadbare on the route to the sofa from the door, the shadows too, absorbing every sound, every step taking Glantz deeper into their bosom. He might have caught his reflection, a ghost across the panes of the glass-fronted bookcases and dresser, gliding eerily over the spines of their sacerdotal texts, their leatherbound tomes. Lorqan was, too, as he had always been, sat in his armchair, facing the fire, a tartan blanket tucked around his knees.

Glantz hesitated behind his chair. Neither man moved. On a table at the far end of the sofa, near to the hearth, Glantz’s tea was steaming, the fire, even less than the faint glow it produced, barely putting out a blush of heat. Still Glantz might have felt the drop of sweat that ran down the collar of his shirt.

Fr Lorqan shifted in his seat. Once he would have spoken up, chastised Glantz, chivvied him along. Glantz came around to stand beside him. His neck was a mottled offense of bruise, of abrasion, a grimace of scabbing that jeered convex rising around the jawline and up towards his ears. Glantz looked away. Lorqan’s milky eyes stared unblinking, catching, within, flickers of cold, reflected flame.

On a table set just to the left of Lorqan’s chair, a votive candle, now extinguished, had been placed. Alongside it was a picture frame, which encased, in calligraphic scripts, the words of a prayer. Glantz moved around the sitting priest and picked up the frame. He read it, his eyes flitting back and forth. When he put the frame back, lying it face down on the table, he had left fingerprints across its dusty glass.

Glantz reached out and rested his hand on Fr Lorqan’s shoulder. The old priest started. “It’s Glantz,” he was told.

Lorqan lifted his hand to Glantz’s, and hooked his fingers around the edge of his palm. Glantz closed his thumb, marred with smut, across them, squeezing with a gentle but distinct palpitation. Tears welled in the old priest’s eyes. Releasing his grip, with a knuckle, Glantz took the tear from Lorqan’s cheek. He patted his shoulder and went to sit. Lorqan’s hand stayed resting at his neck. For a long time after that neither man spoke.

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