Chapter 30: Bishop’s Nightmare

The news conference was held on the huge front steps of the great cathedral on a clear, sunny day. It had gone quite well, pretty much as laid out in the press materials handed out beforehand. The Bishop expansively explained that the “unfortunate story” of the closure of the retirement home operated by the Order of the Ardent Sisters of His Holy Service was a simple “rush to judgment” by an “over-zealous budget process.” His Grace explained that of all present, he was the most grateful for an opportunity to “correct a grave error” before it had been perpetrated upon “these most faithful, most precious, most highly revered servants in the Lord’s service.”

Members of the press stifled their cynical responses while they dutifully recorded the Bishop’s bleatings. A few of the photographers were able to capture his flushed face, glistening with beads of sweat as he spoke. His assistant would later plead that such photos not be printed, stating that the great man’s apparent discomfiture was due “not to stress and embarrassment but rather to the unseasonable heat of the day.”

No photographer was able to see or photograph what the Bishop saw standing behind the crowd as he concluded his remarks: a row of nine Priests, shoulder to shoulder in black suits. Their faces were ghastly white. Black sockets gaped where their eyes should be. At first he’d vaguely wondered why they were there. He recognized each as a ‘problem priest’ that he’d been forced to transfer out of the city. When he looked more closely he saw that these were not human faces. They were ghastly, horrible caricatures of human faces. He stopped speaking and stared. The nine apparitions grew larger and closer, moving forward through the assembled press who moved aside to make room for their passage but took no notice otherwise.

He staggered backwards a step, reeling. He nearly fell as his foot caught the edge of a step behind him. The apparitions were upon him now, surrounding him, hissing and whispering foul epithets to him, accusing him of foul complicity. He gasped and held out his arms to ward them off. They closed their ranks, their cadaverous faces thrust into his. Their mouths opened and exhaled a noxious cloud of green gas that reeked and tasted of death. It surrounded him, choking and blinding him. He was nauseated, his stomach heaving as if to vomit all it held, but his throat was choked shut. His bile rose and burned like the fires of Hell but he could expell nothing.

Bishop Cruxton flailed wildly and fell unconscious on the steps, his head striking the edge of the stone to open a bleeding wound on his bald pate. Cameras recorded every moment of his ‘fainting spell’ as his assistant later labeled it. Tape recorders caught his shrieking words before he’d been choked into unconsciousness, a screaming gibberish of ‘devils, hell spawn, demons!’

An ambulance was only moments away. The great man was lifted from the bloodied steps. He would be many days in hospital before he recovered. He was confined to a private room. News reporters, staking out the lower floor which was as close as they were allowed to approach, were quick to note that several of the city’s most prominent physicians and psychiatrists were coming and going from the Bishop’s floor. Their insistent questioning was met with denials and refusals to comment. But they suspected that something more than ‘fainting from stress and heat’ had happened. They had little need to speculate. Film footage and photographs of the incident dominated the news for several days. Commentary was rife with speculation concerning whatever ‘affliction’ had befallen the city’s most prominent clergyman.

Alone in his private room, the door closely guarded by a rotating shift of security staff, the Bishop lay exhausted in his bed. He was quite alone, most emphatically, insistently alone. He could not, would not tolerate any questions or pitying glances. He had dismissed his staff to tend to their duties back in their offices. Even his personal assistant had been banished from the hospital, told that he would approach the Bishop upon pain of losing his position.

The Bishop wished nothing more than to be left alone. He was troubled, confused, and worried that he was losing his sanity.

He woke to find a stranger standing at the foot of his bed wearing a simple homespun robe of gray wool. The unsmiling figure gestured for the Bishop to rise. Without thinking he found himself compelled to slide from the bed to stand on bare feet. He shuffled forward and the stranger reached out a hand, grasped his shoulder, and they found themselves standing in an empty landscape before a massive gate.

Bishop Cruxton peered through the bars of the gate and there he saw Paradise. Gazing into that scene his soul felt a surge of desire and longing. He reached out to grasp the gate but it slid away, just out of reach. As it did he felt a moment of sorrow, of loss.