This is part 2 of a story posted on January 6, 2012. If you haven’t yet read part 1, you won’t have an idea what’s going on here… in part 2. You’ll ask yourself, “who ARE these people?” and, “what is happening?” and “why do I care?” Ok, you might be asking that last one anyway, but I still strongly suggest that you dig back in time, to the good old days of January 6, and read part 1. – K

 

It had been an odd thing for Sister Brigid to say, and Jim did not prompt her to continue. He knew to what she was referring: Kisikil-lilla-ke, Liyliyth, Lilith, all part of the same ancient legend. In Judaic lore, Lilith was Adams first wife, before Eve, but she defied both God and Adam. She left the Garden of Eden, and, according to the legend, became the mother of monsters, demons, psychic vampires.

Jim said nothing. It was most likely just the workings of a superstitious, if well-meaning mind, and he didn’t want to encourage her fears.

Having been around supernatural occurrences, he’d developed a sixth sense: He could detect an unnatural presence, like electricity in the air. The atmosphere at the home was tense, certainly, and it being the very early hours of the morning, there was the expected quietness and feeling of foreboding, but that was it.

A moment passed. Sister Brigid said nothing, obviously waiting for Jim’s reaction.

“I know what you’re referring to, Sister, “ he said. “Your bishop has called for Father Gillette and myself. If anything out of the ordinary is happening here, Sister, we’ll sort it out.  Father Gillette himself will be here in just a few short hours.”

“Aye, your Ecclesiarch. I know of him. My family, on my mother’s side, is Catholic, in case you don’t know. One of my cousins is a Jesuit priest, Admonitor to the General, in fact.”

Jim didn’t have time to form a reply: the smell of coffee reached them just a moment before Sister Consantia’s arrival.

In silence, they took their cups and sipped.

Time passed. Jim asked for the restroom, and in a hushed voice, Sister Consantia provided directions. It was growing light outside, Jim noted, and he took advantage of the break to stretch his legs. He walked about the rambling old building, and upon his return to the nursery, only Sister Consantia remained.

After a while, Sister Serilda returned with a police officer and a doctor from the coroner’s office. Sister Serilda told Jim that he might take breakfast in the dining hall. Without speaking with anyone, Jim left to do exactly that. He had been ordered to stand watch, and not to take any initiatives. Jim had learned to obey Father Gillette’s instructions to the letter.

After a simple breakfast of oatmeal, toast and coffee, he took a walk around the old mansion. With daybreak, officials began coming and going, and he felt he wasn’t needed to guard the nursery. Besides, it was probably best to stay out of the way.

 

As Sister Serilda had said, the north wing was devoted to the mothers and their newborns. Jim ambled up and down the northward hallways, the first floor and the second. He did not go poking into rooms whose doors were closed, but if an open doorway beckoned, at a minimum, he stuck his head in for a look.

He wasn’t looking for anything in particular; he sought no specific thing. Rather, he looked for anything out of the ordinary. Father Gillette taught him to be inquisitive, and to avoid drawing premature conclusions. After all, it was only being thorough to consider all possibilities, even impossibilities, or, at least improbabilities. Jim prided himself on remaining objective, on weighing all options evenly, but he admitted to himself that he much preferred dealing with normal corporeal agents. Although human beings could be just as evil, he found coping with earthbound agents to be quicker and much more conclusive. So often, it seemed to him, when Father Blackwood and himself dealt with supernatural forces, they wound up being little more than shepherds: they could protect the sheep, but they could never get rid of the wolf for good and for all.

As best Jim could tell, the north wing offered some forty rooms. In use were a bank of rooms just south of the nursery devoted to those women who were waiting to deliver their babies. The rooms were small and Spartan, but always neat and immaculately clean. In some, women had radios brought from home. The music of Guy Lombardo, Bing Crosby, and Jimmy Dorsey wafted up and down the hallway outside these rooms, merging and changing, mingled with the sound of radio announcers prattling out commercials, and women muttering amongst themselves.

Farther on were two rather large dormitory style rooms, most likely they had served as ballrooms, once. Now they held dozens of thick-metal hospital beds. For privacy, a curtain could be drawn around each small area, but this did little to hush the sounds of new mothers sitting up and chatting, or walking about, if their state permitted, and the fuss of the Sisters as they moved amongst the young women.

Jim continued on. Behind one of the doors, he spotted a narrow stairway going up to a third floor.

In the dark of the previous night, Roger had not stopped to take in the building’s details. Even if he had, standing in the driveway outside the main entrance, he would not have seen that in two places, Merle Armstrong Bryce had built on a third floor.

The mansion had begun as a square, in the American Federal style. Merle built on first the larger, north wing, then the south. These wings themselves were smaller than the main building, not as wide and not as tall, with steep roofs and dormer windows on the second floor. The additions were flush with the main building creating an outdoor courtyard behind each wing.

After the wings were in place, Merle added two third floor apartments; each positioned along the back wall of the original square, but not interconnected. Indeed, to go between the apartments would require a walk downstairs, through the large entranceway to the opposing wing, and then back up again.

Jim saw the staircase and followed it up.

The door at the top of the stairs was closed, but not locked. He listened at the door, and finding it utterly silent, he chose to break his own unspoken rule and pushed his way inside.

He found himself in a small entryway. Dust lay thick on a long rug, probably quite stylish in its day. Jim roamed past a small closet containing a few abandoned coats to an expansive living area. Chairs, settees, and divans stood scattered about, covered over with sheets and layers of dust. Tables bearing lamps—they looked to be oil lamps, Jim saw no outlets or cords—as well as bric-a-brac, were distributed strategically throughout the scene.

Evidently, no one had used these rooms since the place had become The Old Newgate Home for Young Women and Children.

To his right, he discovered what would have been a small but adequate kitchen. To his left, down a slender corridor, he found three forlorn bedrooms as well as a bathroom and a small study, all in a similar state of decline. The study boasted large windows—opaque with dust and time—looking out over the roof and away westward.

Jim tried the closest window. It opened freely. He slid it up as far as it would go, about eighteen inches, and peered out.

The roof of the main building was very nearly flat, with four chimneys rising in the corners, past these stood the low, decorative balustrade. There, the roof fell off precipitously. He could see the roof of the north wing stretching away to his right, and far off, he could make out a bit of the south wing’s roof as well.

The roof of the main building was only four or five feet below. Roger climbed out and down, then strode away northwestward, counting his steps as he went. He paid close attention to the roof itself. He saw no footprints, but looking back, he saw that he had left none. The roof itself was shingled with asphalt, dark and grainy, with a slight slope to front and back. Jim reached the peak and turned due north.

He confronted a long drop when he came to the point where the north wing began. Its roof was steep, with dormers jutting out westward at regular intervals. He figured that most likely he would fall if he tried to climb or jump down to the lower roof, but if he had a rope, he make the descent. He looked around for a place to anchor such a rope, and seeing a solid, briock chimney only a few paces away, he went to inspect it. Finding no indication that anyone had ever secured a rope there, he prowled on, back and forth across the roof. As he went, he counted his steps, and made mental notes. From time to time, he peered over the edges to keep himself properly oriented.

Finally, he paced back to the window, climbed in, and closed it.

Upon his return, Jim counted his steps back to the nursery. Then he marched to the refectory and secured another cup of coffee. There he waited until Father Gillette arrived.

“I’ve been listening to the weather reports,” the Father said. “They expect another storm tonight.”

A Sister had escorted him to the cafeteria, and left him there, where Jim sat dozing, nearly asleep.

“Yes,” Jim replied, stretching and yawning. “Sister Brigid said that these deaths have occurred only during a storm, a storm at night that is.”

“Yes,” Father Gillette said. “And the children have all been less than a month old, the boys less than eight days.”

“Yes,” Jim said. He paused for a moment, then added, “Which is consistent with crib death.” He waited for Father Gillette’s reaction, then continued, “Of course we can’t rule anything out, even the old myths.”

“Yes,” Father Gillette replied, stretching the word out. “So, tell me, what have you learned? Or have you spent your time dozing here in the dining hall?”

“No,” Jim laughed. “Not the entire time. Behind the tall roof that you see when you drive up, there are two separate, third-floor apartments. Each has windows facing westward out over the roof of the original building and over the roofs of their respective wings as well. From the northernmost apartment it’s about 160 feet to the end of the main building. This is directly above the nursery. It would be a long drop, perhaps twelve feet or so, but someone make the climb, if they had a rope, and, a storm would help to cover the sounds of anyone walking around on the roof.”

“You think there’s an opening of some kind in the ceiling above the nursery?”

“Maybe something that has been covered over, perhaps a skylight, or a vent of some kind.”

“Hmm,” Father Gillette said, his eyes wandered about the room. “You think that someone could get in to the nursery and then, do what? Murder these children somehow? Smother them?”

“ ‘First, rule out the obvious,’ ” Jim replied, quoting a phrase he’d heard from Father Gillette many times.

“Right! Well, even if it could be done, I can’t see a motive. If it were some sick demonist, or a deluded black wizard, they would take the infants away for whatever rite they were performing. Besides, the coroner can find no clear cause of death.”

“Well, that could be asphyxiation. In ones so small, it’s sometimes hard to detect it. Or, perhaps it is simply a tragic coincidence. Maybe it is crib deaths, and perhaps there won’t be another for a long time, balancing out the odds.”

“Well, let’s hope so. In the meantime, we should prepare for the worst.”

“And what would that be, then?”

“Well, let’s think about what we’ve read in the old texts. There is a class of ancient demon that can be imbued with great power through ritual and sacrifice. These captators, seizer demons, could be capable of such deaths, if they had human help.  Of course, there is something much older and much worse, if the legends are to be believed.

“Lilithu,” Jim said, a question in his eyes.

“Yes,” Father Gillette said. “Ti’Amtum, an ancient evil capable of doing these things without a human medium.”

“I would prefer to believe that there is a demented maniac,” Jim said. “Or that someone has become possessed.”

“’That would be simpler, and easier, but I’m afraid the circumstances are not utterly unique. This has happened before, but not for a long. long time, and I’m afraid that if the worst is true, it’s not over. It’ll be up to us to stop it, her. I’m afraid that things are complicated, and what’s worse is the authorities are involved. They will be a hinder, more than likely, and if they stay involved, they will need an explanation every step of the way, one complete with some sort of physical evidence. Ultimately, the police will want someone to blame.”

“You can speak with the captain or the commissioner.” It was more a statement than a question. Jim had seen Father Gillette work with the police before. Somehow or another, Father Gillette always wound up with a degree of latitude and authority.

“I will call him today, if I can find a telephone hereabouts. In the meantime, I want you to study up. I brought what materials I could gather before I left the rectory. In the backseat of my automobile you’ll find what I have. You must find every reference to Lilithu. When you’re done, we’ll compare what you’ve learned with what I remember.”

Jim nodded in acknowledgement.

Father Blackwood grasped Jim’s arm, “The weather report is calling for a storm tonight, Jim. We must have a plan. We must be prepared. We have to stop this.”

“Of course, Father.”

The back of Father Gillette’s car was crammed with boxes. It took Jim two trips to get them all into the little office Sister Serilda had cleared.

The crates were full of books, manuscripts, and scrolls in Greek and Latin, first century Hebrew and Aramaic, ancient Sumerian, Egyptian, and Sanskrit. If Jim were to read every word it could take months or even years. Instead, he focused on the Midrash and the earlier Mishna, commentaries, and analysis on age-old Jewish oral traditions. He gathered references from the Rig Veda, and from the secret fifth tablet of the Enuma Elish, an ancient Babylonian text.

Jim referenced and cross-referenced. It seemed that all manner of infant deaths were attributed to demons, succubus and incubus, afreet and djinn. Then, sometime after the ninth century, these references became few. Jim thought this odd because at that time, the western world was entering the Early Middle Ages, and if anything, he would expect even more references to demons and witches and such.

While unpacking the boxes, Jim spotted a stack of manuscripts and by their titles, he knew them to be the journals of the previous Ecclesiarches. There were only three such books, handwritten and bound with chiseled leather, so he hoped they pertained to the period in question.

The first book dated from 1590 to 1870, the second from 1210 to 1590, the third from 857 to 1210. A single individual apparently wrote each journal; although how that could be possible, Jim did not know.

Brencis Macarius Severien wrote the book that encompassed the time from 857 to 1210, and it was upon this ledger that Jim focused.

It was growing dark outside when Father Gillette interrupted.

“Sister Serilda has been kind enough to invite us to dinner,” he said. “Gather up your notes, Jim, and we’ll take advantage of her hospitality as well as her knowledge, which, by the way, is considerable.”

Jim stood and stretched. He rubbed his eyes and began putting together his notes and packing the reference material away. “She was very frightened last night,” he said. “She didn’t offer me any insight.”

“No. As you say, she is frightened. She feels responsible for the women and children here. They are under her protection and she doesn’t know what to do.”

“Well, I’m not sure that I know what do to either,” Jim replied. “I’ve made several notes, but even though the legend of this Lilithu stretches back to the earliest times, I can’t find anything to counteract her, no ritual or incantation to fight her with.”

“That’s because no process exists, at least none to dispel her.” Father Gillette hoisted several of the boxes, evidently meaning to put them back in his automobile. Jim grabbed up the other boxes and with his notes balanced on top, led the way out of the little office Sister Serilda had lent him.

“Lilithu is an ancient power,” Father Gillette continued, “We are not allowed to destroy her, Jim. We cannot kill her. At best, we can only hope to banish her to some lonely region for a finite period of time.”

Jim did not comment. He followed Father Gillette to the car, which was still parked under the overhang outside the main entrance. Then they made their way toward the dinning hall.

“Have you visited the orphan’s wing?” Father Gillette asked.

“No sir, I have not.”

“It’s very somber there,” Father Gillette said, “There’s a feeling of desperation. The children play, but while they are at their games, they hardly laugh or even smile. It is as if they are going through the motions, mechanical, wooden. I am speaking of small children, Jim, five, six, seven and eight. To me it felt as though all the wonder and magic of the world had been drained away from them, and at such a young age.”

“I suppose that it’s difficult being an orphan. And, because of these tragedies, no one in this place is very cheerful these days.”

“Yes, that’s exactly correct. These tragedies as you put it, have left a pall all about the place, an unnatural pall, in my opinion. It is as if everyone here had their hope and courage sucked out of them.”

“I see,” Jim replied, turning to enter the dining hall. “You’re saying that this entity is draining them of energy, their spirit and fervor.”

“Yes, that’s right. And Jim, Sister Serilda is frightened, and she feels helpless. We’ll not work through your notes in front of her. We must take care: Her state of mind is fragile.”

“I understand, Father.”

“Good! And good evening to you Sister. We were just talking about the wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen!”

“Good evening, Father. Good evening to you, Mr. MacSwiney. We’re ready for you. I’ve set aside this little dining room. It’s somewhat small, but it will offer us a degree of privacy. One of the novices, Sister Helen I believe, will serve us.”

Sister Consantia, the quiet Sister that Jim had met the night before, joined them for dinner. They spoke little, but the conversation was light-hearted, at least in view of recent events.

When Sister Helen brought them all coffee—leaving the large metal urn behind—the conversation turned to serious matters.

“What can we do, Father, to protect our children tonight?” Sister Serilda asked. “I understand that a storm is on the way.”

“Tonight, Sister, Jim and I will sit in the nursery. If we can help it, not another infant will die within these walls tonight. You and whoever wishes may pray that God lends us strength and wisdom. Also, it would be a great ease to my mind to know that as many Sisters as possible watch over the children in the orphanage. A simple presence there will make a difference.”

“Is there danger to the children in the south wing now as well?” Sister Serilda’s eyes grew large and told of strain just to keep her voice level.

“Sister, I’m sure that you’ve heard talk about the old legends, and you probably know that it’s my business, for the Church, to deal with such things, but believe me when I tell you that rarely, very rarely, do I find real evil agents. More often than not, people are responsible for the evil deeds of our times, deluded people, sick people. It could very well be that you are simply going through a bad patch here, and things will improve in God’s good time. It could be that someone is perpetrating these crimes, in ways and for reasons we do not know. Or, it could be that God has sent us a challenge, one that is our lot to confront. Sometimes, God wants us to see the depth of the world he has created, and to do that, we must meet terrible evil with complete faith and courage. No matter what, Sister, we must pray to God to sustain us with his strength. Perhaps, tonight, our prayers will be all that we need.”

“I understand,” Sister Serilda replied. “You wish us all to be busy, not to lay in our beds, worrying.”

“Yes, and on I want as much positive and hopeful thinking as possible,” Father Gillette said. “The mood of this place has become somewhat bleak and hopeless. We must take faith, and exhibit it! We must believe that God will help us, will strengthen our resolve. Besides, a few Sisters standing guard in the orphanage, and anywhere else for that matter, will be a help, Sister.”

“Perhaps it was imprudent of you to send away the police guard. We might have had the officer guard the south wing.”

“I don’t think that the police will not be of any assistance in this situation. If you assign one or two of your more steady Sisters to the orphanage, have them bring their bibles with them, and they will be as formidable as any number of police officers.”

“Sister,” Jim said, “if mortal men or women are committing these atrocities, Father Gillette and I will be more than a match for them.”

Sister Serilda stared at Jim for a long moment, then she smiled, and said, “Of course,” and her eyes brightened, if only a bit. “I’ll be off to make arrangements then. May I assume that you will not need anyone with you in the nursery? I mean other than the Sisters who tend the babies and take them to their mothers to nurse.”

“That’s right, Sister. Jim and I will manage.”

“Very well,” she replied. Then she added, “You know, I believe that you will. I will gather the other Sisters in the chapel, and we will send you what strength we can muster.”

Jim and Father Gillette thanked Sister Serilda and took themselves away—along with a large steel thermos of coffee—to the nursery to stand guard. It was only eight o’clock, but it was pitch-dark outside; thick clouds forerunning a tremendous storm had closed around the Home.

They set up in the inner room with the infants. Against the backdrop of crying and wailing, spitting and gurgling.

In a hushed voice, Jim went through his notes with Father Gillette.

“I found a great deal of information in the rabbinical notes of the first and second century,” Jim whispered. “The Lilithu legend goes back to Summerian times, and even earlier when she is called Lamashtu. The ancient Greeks called her Lamia, and she has other names as well, a reference to an ancient chaos demon, Ti’Amtum, by the Babylonians, as you mentioned. I read one report that seemed to say that she was the concubine of Samael. That together they gave birth to a race of semi-human demons, vampires I suppose.”

“Yes, but not vampires in black tie and tales. Such things, thankfully, do not exist. More like life force vampires.”

“Yes, well, certainly all the legends cannot be the actual truth, although I suppose that each story contains an element of it.”

“Exactly. You learn after all! What else did you find?”

“It seems to me that before and during the Dark Ages, almost every infant death was attributed to something supernatural, succubus, incubus, imps, and sprites, demons and demonettes, but chief among them is the Lilithu myth. This is true throughout the Middle East and Southern Europe. Then in the ninth and tenth centuries, these references become a trickle. It seems that Lilithu, and her host of infant killers, dry up and blow away. This corresponds with entries made by your predecessor, Father Brencis Macarius Severien. In his journal, he reports that he banished Lilithu, bound her to the bottom of the sea.”

“Yes,” Father Gillette said. “Father Severien was a most powerful man. He wrote that he banished Lilithu to the bottom of the sea until the cracking of the Earth. Now I know that I didn’t miss that event, so her presence here is a mystery, if Father Severien is to be taken literally.”

“Are you saying that your predecessor was writing metaphorically?”

“Well, yes.” Father Gillette replied. “that was the style of the times. It went without saying, people wrote using symbols and metaphors, kind of a code.”

“A code you understand?”

“After a fashion. Jim, look, everything we’ve done together has been in preparation for the next thing. Each encounter led to the next, all of them leading to this. Now, imagine your spirit, with no eyes to see, no ears to hear, yet, you perceive God’s creation. You might say that a feeling you have in your heart is time passing, and the suffering and elation of the spirits around you. This feeling you might call “hearing,” although you have no ears, and it is not the vibration of sound waves. A feeling you have in your mind of God—his thoughts, however flawed your conception of them might be—might be called “sight,” although again, you have no eyes with which to see, and light is another perception altogether. If you think of describing a world that is not seen or heard, felt, touched, tasted, or smelled in any corporeal way, and using words to do so, then you begin to see the need for metaphors and symbols.”

Jim did not reply. He could understand what Father Gillette was saying. When the spirit of the murderer was called back from death, Jim had heard the voice, but not with his ears. It had been a most affecting sensation. Could there be an entire world of such perceptions?

“Tonight, you may well experience a good deal of that other existence. If so, it will be a test for you, for the strength of your mind and spirit, and especially of your faith. You must know that some aspects of that other world are awesome to the point of being terrifying. To be successful, to vanquish your opponent and survive with your sanity, requires great strength of purpose, and faith. The most powerful weapon a demon possesses is an assault on your corporeal mind with non-corporeal perceptions. Some will be “true” perceptions, some will be lies, and you will not be able to tell one from another, not without experience. Yet, there is only one way to gain experience. You must face it, and survive.”

“I think I understand, Father.”

“Yes,” Father Gillette blew a breath through his nose. “Well, you made note of Father Severien’s ritual, yes?”

“I did, although it seemed quite simple; I don’t see how it could be effective.”

“It would be most simple, complex rites are for the living. Be that as it may, keep it close: you’ll find it useful, I’ll warrant. And speaking of useful, I found time to investigate your idea about an opening in the ceiling here. A hollow spot about four feet square exists directly above the eastern wall there, although I could see no seams or cracks.”

Together they walked to the place where the forsaken crib had stood. They stood for a moment, staring at the ground, then at the ceiling. A sudden crack of thunder made them both jump. The lightning strike must have been close; the foundation of the building shook and the unmistakable smell of ozone permeated the room.

The muffled pounding on the roof above could only be a downpour.

“Get ready,” Father Gillette ordered.

Jim withdrew a bible from his pouch, as well as a golden crucifix and a silver Magen David. Father Gillette’s hands remained empty. After a few moments, yhey both stepped back as something heavy landed on the roof above.

A square appeared in the ceiling above, the tile bulged as if someone or something were pressing down upon it, although Jim felt sure that it had to be a trick of the light; it looked like an expanding balloon, but square in shape.

 

 

Sister Brigid and another sat outside the nursery, in the waiting room. They heard nothing, saw nothing. They waited for a long time, sometimes praying, sometimes talking. The storm came and raged outside. Lightning flashed and the wind howled, then, in time, calm returned. When it came time for the infants to nurse, they arose and peered through the window to the nursery.

All was dark, except for the small splash of light near the cribs. All was quiet. The Sisters entered, and looked about. It seemed that Father Gillette and his apprentice had disappeared. Then Sister Brigid spotted them, laying in the deep shadows of the far corner.

The walls, on either side of the corner, were charred, as if blasted by a burst of intense heat. Sister Brigid was able to rouse Father Gillette, but the young man, Jim, would not wake.

“Get Sister Serilda,” Father Gillette said. “My friend needs a doctor.”

Several of the Sisters were trained nurses, foremost among them was Sister Brigid. She attended to Jim. They moved him to a private room with a bed. There he lay while Father Gillette held his hand.

“I’m sure that the doctor will be here shortly,” Sister Brigid said, in Gaelic. “I can find nothing wrong with him, physically. His heartbeat is regular and strong, as is his breathing.”

“I understand,” Father Gillette said, also in Gaelic.

Sister Brigid looked at Father’s hand, at his fingers, then returned her gaze to his eyes. She did this without speaking, but the question was written in her eyes: she saw no Cardinal’s ring, yet she knew that Father Gillette held that rank.

“In pectore,” Father Gillette said, in secret.

Sister Brigid nodded, and lowered her eyes. It seemed that the stories she’d heard, but hadn’t really believed, were true.

“Eminence,” she said. “Can you tell me, please, what happened in there, in the nursery? We was just outside, but we never heard a thing, never saw a thing. How is that possible?”

Her eyes did not meet Father Gillette’s, but the tension showed in her shoulders, and in the way she held her head. It would be unkind to give her no answer at all.

In Gaelic, he said, “She was amongst us, Jim and I, or rather, we were with her and part of her was with us. She gathered her power, her terror, and passed it over us like a fine net, testing our will and our faith.”

“Her eyes help the ages, and the creation of the world.” Sister Brigid muttered.

“Yes,” Father Gillette said, surprised, and trying not to let it show. “Her eyes held all the long years since the beginning. She was older than both good and evil, and she was terrible. She spun her thoughts as a spider turns a web, tales of suffering beyond comprehension, and with her thoughts she wove visions of emptiness, yearning for light, and warmth. She focused her attention upon Young Fineen. Perhaps she found something there, a weakness perhaps. Time stood still. I called upon the archangels of living fire. With their help I was able to turn her break her… concentration. There was a terrible battle of wills. With God’s help, I performed the rites, and was able to bind her to His Breath. It will not last long, perhaps a few hundred years, and for all that, it won’t help young Fineen. He distracted her, Sister. I don’t think that I could have withstood it. In the end, I think that he was stronger even than I knew. But now, I fear that even if he does return to us, some part of him will always be there, with her. It’s a terrible loss to us all. He showed great potential, and now, it’s been squandered.”

Sister Brigid said not a word. She held Jim’s hand, and wiped a stray hair from his forehead. Then she sang a very old Gaelic lullaby.

Father Gillette got Jim home, to North Topsham. Months went by, and Jim could speak again. He Jim returned to college, and in time, became the parish priest of his hometown, but he never flew off to distant and mysterious lands on behalf of the Church, and he never renewed his apprenticeship with Father Gillette. He was never again the hopeful, joyous young man he had been. But he had gained something from his ordeal, a faith in God as strong as steel cable. Jim never again faced overt evil, but he was a stalwart friend to every one of his parishioners, and he worked tirelessly to improve their lives. Father Gillette visited from time to time. They would sit in the parsonage, in front of a cheery blaze sipping whiskey, quietly, not needing to talk at all.