Sanctuary

Part 1 of 1

     The door was open, and there, lying in a fetal position in the far corner of the sacristy, was the body of a bear.
     I closed the heavy, oak door against the pre-dawn silence of January's bitter cold. It sounded like a peal of thunder in the empty church. The bear didn't move.
     My breath was visible in the uncomforting glare of the room's only light, a circular, fluorescent ceiling fixture. On second thought, I opened the door a crack.
     I went to the thermostat and turned it up. It would be a while before it was noticeably warmer, since the heat would have to fill the high, gabled ceilings first. But by the time the first parishioners started to file in for six-thirty mass, the chill would be gone.
     I moved softly to the animal. What was I doing? I should be on the phone to the police, or game warden or something. I mean, brethren and sisters, here's a for-crying-out-loud BEAR. In my church! Something held me back, though. It looked so...human, lying there. It wasn't big as black bears go, a male, maybe two-hundred pounds. Probably last year's cub. I tentatively touched one hind paw with the tip of my shoe. Nothing.
     I squatted down beside it. Its head rested on its right forepaw. Its left paw was tucked against its muzzle. I couldn't see its chest move, but then I noticed that the guard hairs on the paw nearest its nose fluttered ever so slightly. I watched for a moment. The fluttering would stop, then repeat, about ten times a minute. It was alive, but just barely.
     Fetching a flashlight from the broom closet, I examined the bear more closely. I laid my palm on its head—not the warmth one would expect. Lifting each eyelid in turn revealed dilated pupils. Not good. But was it the same with bears as with people?
     Maybe it was sick. Or hurt? Feeling a little braver, I ran my hand over the coarse fur of its back and flanks, but could detect nothing. I played the flashlight beam across the black coat. I knew I'd have trouble turning its bulk over to inspect the other side. Something gleamed in the light, near the hidden part of its neck. I peered closer. A dart, no, a needle, attached to a cylinder with plastic fletching at the end, protruded from the skin.
     A tranquilizer dart—or poison. Saint Augustine's a rural parish, and work being what it is in this depressed area, hunting and fishing help keep the wolf from the door. Hunting occurs out of season, and there are game protectors who will look the other way. But hunting is one thing; this is another. The dart didn't have official markings. It was a silent method of bringing down an animal, usually at night, with a light to mesmerize it.
     But it wasn't quick, and it wasn't clean. You had to follow the animal while it stuporously crashed through the brush away from an enemy it couldn't comprehend, then dispatch it with a knife where it fell, as it rolled the whites of its eyes in bewilderment. About half the time the animal wasn't found. It would die of exposure, helpless, not understanding why its legs didn't work.
     Is that what happened to you, my friend? Grasping the dart, I pulled with a firm, quick stroke. It came out cleanly, leaving a tiny drop of blood. The bear shuddered involuntarily. "Sorry, fella." My voice sounded out of place in the stillness.
     From the front of the church I could hear the first arrivals make their way to their seats. They were comforting sounds—coughs, babies protesting the bulky winter snowsuits, rubber boots squeaking on the polished floor, the creak of worn, oak pews. It was time I got ready.
     Should I cancel the service; tell somebody? No. The creature had been through enough. It might yet live, but I doubted it. And if it died, what better place? I turned the thermostat up another notch. I grabbed a couple of altar boys' cassocks from a rack and covered the bear, patting its head. Why did you come here, bear?

***

I lit the two candles on the altar, and marked pages in my missalette for today's readings. There were no altar boys at weekday morning mass. Most of them had farm chores to contend with in the early hours, before getting ready for school. Most of the parishioners had gathered in the front pews; a few sat in the back. There were fifteen people, about normal for a Monday. I began.
     "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
     I couldn't take my mind off the bear. Why here? I couldn't escape the feeling of significance, something important in the bear's presence. Come on, father, I mentally chided myself. It's just a dumb animal that wandered in out of the cold, nothing more. Right.
     The congregation recited the contrition. "Forgive me for all that I have done, and all that I have failed to do..." What have I failed to do?
     In the middle of the reading from the Old Testament, it occurred to me. What if the bear wakes up during mass? It would be groggy; wouldn't be able to find a way out. It might hurt itself. Or, good God, it might come out here. People would panic. They could be hurt! What was I thinking of, not telling anybody? Please, let it sleep 'til mass is over.
     I listened, waiting for the terrified animal bawl, the sound of sharp claws clattering on varnished floor as it tried to escape. But there was no sound, except the soft clink of expanding pipes from the heating system.
     The Gospel was ended. The people sat back in their seats expectantly, waiting for my homily. What would I say to them? All I could think of was that bear. I just wanted this to be over as quickly as possible. Forgive me, Lord.
     I was going to talk about the wise men, and their trek to visit the Child, but the picture I had in my head was of the hunchback and Esmeralda. The misshapen wretch who brought the falsely accused and hunted girl into the church for protection. No, sanctuary.
     "There came three wise men from the east to Jerusalem, and...." This isn't it, I thought. This isn't what I want to talk about.
     "They saw the young child with Mary, his mother, and fell down, and worshiped him—" I frowned and coughed into my hand. People began to look at one another and shift uneasily in their seats. I took a deep breath and put away my notes.
     "Uh—when you least—um—" Easy, now. Start again.
     "We're all scared at one time or another, and there are many degrees of fear. Sometimes we're afraid of losing the one we love: a child going away to college, a parent dying of cancer, or a marriage gone sour. It may be that we fear death, or disease.
     "And sometimes, we are afraid of life itself. Oh, not so much the day-to-day struggle with job, bills, and people who want something from us, but a deeper fear, a fear of not having anyone, no living creature to turn to, not even an enemy. It is this fear of complete aloneness, of not being acknowledged as a living, breathing member of life that haunts us all.
     "We may not ever admit it, but it's there, in the background, waiting. Waiting for those times when we're lying in bed in the dark, open eyes staring at nothing, when our very soul feels like a dried, black husk. When even the sleeping presence of a loved one beside us offers no solace. "It creeps upon us—a tickle of terror we can't quite define—setting little rivulets of cold sweat trickling, chests tightening and hearts stuttering. It is a primeval fear, like the fleeting brush of cold scales against your feet under the covers.
     "We all need to be needed. We all need to feel loved. Think of those whose lives we touch everyday. Do we make a difference? Do I make a difference? Do I? Yes, I think so. If nothing else, we offer ourselves as a mirror, showing others that we cry, laugh, and hurt too.
     "Be a mirror, my friends; let your brother know that he isn't alone. Let the warmth and light of your soul brighten his reflection.
     "Amen."
     Several people looked at me kind of funny, like I'd just told a dirty joke. One old man smiled at me with glistening eyes, nodding in agreement. Most just sat stiffly, waiting to see what I'd do next.
     Just then I heard something from the sacristy, a soft sound. Padded claws on varnished hardwood? Oh God, please don't let it come out here now. But no one else seemed to have heard it. I pushed ahead, afraid to stop, wondering what was happening in there.
     The rest of the mass passed by in a haze. I did it by rote, hoping the people wouldn't notice, or at least not to mind, just this once. I hoped the relief wasn't too obvious on my face when it was finally over.
     "The mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord."
     I watched them file out, hoping no one would decide to talk to me. None did. The silence settled like a blanket when the last person had left, leaving me to stare at the sacristy. No sound came from there, just the drip of water from the eaves as the sun began to warm the roof. I genuflected as I left the altar, sighed deeply, and entered the room.

***

    It wasn't there, and if truth be known I think I knew the bear would be gone. Maybe it wasn't ever here. But when I went to the corner and felt the floor, it was still slightly warm. It lived, then. I smiled.