Deliver Us From Evil

Chapter Three

Margaret jolted awake with a start. Something in the unfamiliar blackness had touched her. The sensation was still fresh upon her skin. Blinking a little and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she slowly looked about. Nothing but blackness.

Then, she saw it. Two glowing orbs were right next to her face. They blinked twice. Before she could scream, Margaret caught herself.

Silly, she thought, almost laughing with relief. It's just the cat.

Relaxing back on the pillows, she smiled. "Here kitty," she said extending her hand.

The cat withdrew his paw and looked offended.

"Good evening, and my name is Hakan," he said in dulcet, almost purring tones.

Silence.

With a frustrated half growl, half purr, the gray and white cat stretched. "I'd ask," he meowed, yawning a little, "if the cat had your tongue, but I find that statement racist and offensive. Cats never touch human tongues, it's vile really. The kind of thing you expect of a dog."

Finding her voice, Margaret finally spoke. "I-I didn't know cats could talk," she stammered, almost trembling.

"They can't," admitted the feline, "At least not most. I, however, am above all creatures in that respect." He licked his paw, then used it to smooth his whiskers. "Awfully sorry for waking you, and I'll be on my way. Farewell."

With a leap, he bounded off, vanishing with a flick of his tail, leaving the girl to ponder what had happened. After a while, she supposed it all a dream, and, rolling onto her side, fell asleep.

Edgar Beresford pulled the car into the driveway. His handsome, well defined face was twisted in a pained expression. His eyes, the color of obsidian, were fixed upon the house. This would not be easy. Perhaps no one would even believe what he had to say. With a sigh, he exited the car, straightening his navy blue suit. Walking tall and with pride, he walked towards the unofficial building labeled "Town Hall."

He was aware of the eyes on him. Each person, at first gave him a casual glance, then jerked up a little more, staring at him curiously. Maybe it was the deep, ebony hue of his skin, maybe it was the large crucifix revealed on his shirtfront, but it was obvious from the whispers and murmurs: he was an outcast and the village people did not like him.

Bravely, not caring what they thought of his skin or his Catholic beliefs, he opened the town hall door and confidently asked the receptionist, "Where can I find a Mr. Brooks?"

She glanced up shyly from under her blonde hair. Deep blue eyes appraised him from under long, dark lashes. Her gaze lingered on the crucifix for a moment and she beamed him a smile, flashing her teeth.

"The Mr. Brooks here died about five years ago," she explained softly. "I can give you the address of his maiden sister."

"That would be perfect, ma'am," Edgar replied, his voice betraying a hint of Southern accent.

The woman glanced about her, then beckoned him closer. "People here," she whispered, "Are very prejudiced. Be careful."

"I've handled myself in Georgia. I don't see how Canada is worse," he replied.

She shook her head. "No, no, it's worse here and besides," her white hand gently touched the foot of the cross he wore, almost caressing it. "You're Catholic. They don't like that."

"They?" He queried, his dark brows knitting together curiously.

"The people here. I shouldn't tell you this, I'll get into trouble . . ." She glanced around anxiously. Gently, in an older-brotherly sort of way, Edgar Beresford steadied her. Stealing a glance at his face, she blushed, and continued.

"There was a propaganda campaign here several years ago, started by the Germans. They slowly invaded the town with ordinary people, who were fervent Nazis, to the point of fanaticism. They hate black people, they hate Jews and they hate Catholics. I doubt they'd do anything criminal, but still, be careful."

"Why are you telling me this?"

She smiled and pulled a thin, silver chain from her blouse and flashed him a glance of a small, dainty crucifix at the end. "Not all of us are Nazis," she said sweetly.

Edgar nodded, smiling. "May I ask your name?"

"Diana. Diana Clark."

"The name of a pagan moon goddess. How fitting with that pale white skin. My name is Edgar Beresford."

"How elegant," Diana murmured.

"I'll be going for now. Is there a Catholic parish in town?"

"About thirty miles away."

He grinned, flashing bright white teeth. "I'll see you at Mass then, Miss Diana."

Then, turning, he left.