MARIEL

24~Wolf~

Fr. Jerome stood before the congregation, his hands trembling. The church was dark, lit only with candles. It was dark outside. He overlooked the crowd, watched their expectant faces. He needed to speak, and he cleared his throat. After taking in a breath, Fr. Jerome opened his mouth.

A strange grunt came from his throat. He swallowed, and tried again. Another grunt. Frowning, he opened his mouth again and again, but mere grunts exited his throat. Tears welled in his eyes as the church watched him. It was a crowd of unfamiliar faces, but he knew those faces belonged to him. They were his flock, and he could not teach them.

One familiar man rose to his feet. The candlelight danced on the man's red hair. Phil Jameson.

"I hate to break this up," the red-haired lawyer said, straightening his tie and exiting the pew. "But if you have a flock to lead, lead them. If you have a flock to teach, teach them." He stopped in the center of the church and outstretched his arms inquisitively. "What seems to be the problem here?"

Fr. Jerome watched him and, yet again, attempted to speak. "Mmmph." His face went hot with humiliation. The congregation sat with their hands folded neatly on their laps.

"Can't speak, Father?" Phil approached him slowly. "That may be an issue if you need to teach your sheep, right?"

Fr. Jerome watched as the lanky man approached the steps leading to the platform on which he stood. He wanted to speak, but he dared not attempt again lest he embarrass himself once more.

"Have a seat, Jerome," Phil said, gesturing with annoyance. "Let me show you how to lead a church. Go on. Sit."

Vehemently, Fr. Jerome shook his head.

Phil walked up the steps. "Fine. But you're no use up here." He smiled. "Now watch how it's done." He turned and faced the congregation. "Who here needs healing? Stand up."

Together, in one, fluid motion, the congregation stood. With the same fluidity, their eyes shifted to Phil.

Phil outstretched a hand. "Communion can only go so far. I am here to provide you a new gift of life... to give you a mark of healing. The Lord Himself sent me, as a messenger, to provide hope to the world. In Him, through me, you can be healed." He smiled. "And you can be saved."

Fr. Jerome attempted to speak again. "Mmmmphhh!"

Phil ignored him. "Please, don't be shy. Come receive life and healing."

The congregation came slowly at first. The first was an old man who limped up the stairs and eagerly awaited Phil's outstretched hands. Fr. Jerome watched as Phil placed hands on him. The old man smiled but, steadily, his color drained from his face. He collapsed to the floor. That did not deter the next congregation member, who received Phil's touch just as eagerly and collapsed as well.

Fr. Jerome tried to walk forward, tried to stop the wolf in sheep's clothing. He could not move forward.

The members came quicker and quicker as the body count began to pile on the floor. Frightened, Fr. Jerome began to back away, shaking his head. The members were running towards Phil now, hands outstretched, eyes dazed with hunger and need for the red-haired man. They ran up, received his hands, and collapsed, one after the other.

Fr. Jerome turned and fled.

"Come back, Fr. Jerome!" Phil screamed. "You can't avoid this. Come receive my healing! Come receive it!"

The pews were almost empty as he fled down the center aisle of the dark church. The remaining members of the church shoved past him, hands outstretched for Phil, but the sanctuary doors burst open and a larger crowd stormed towards him. Fr. Jerome held up his arms, struggling to avoid the stampede. They jostled his body, pushing past him as if he were a mere obstacle in their way. Screaming, he struggled to remain on his feet, covering his head and gasping as he pushed past the mob. The closer he got to the main entrance of the church building, the faster and harder the stampede came. He screamed again, but over his scream he heard a familiar voice.

"Dad! You're going the wrong way. Let Phil heal you!"

Desperately, Fr. Jerome searched for Mariel, his face wet with tears. He tried to speak his son's name, but words still did not come.

"Dad! Over here. Follow me!"

There was a break in the crowd, and he saw his son running amongst the crowd towards the church entrance. "Come on, Dad!"

The earth began to shake from the hordes of people stomping towards the church. Violently, he shook his head and continued to run the opposite direction. He wanted to warn his son but he could not speak and he was out of time.

"Dad, come on, you will die!" Mariel's voice nearly drowned in the roar of the crowd.

The ground was cracking apart now. The earth began to separate and the tremors became more violent as the crowd continued sprinting past him. Fr. Jerome ran for his life, his eyes searching for any opening through the crowd as they pushed past his feeble body.

"Dad!"

He fell. The stampede of feet stomped him, crushing him as they pounded towards the church where Phil remained. This was it. He succumbed to the face of death as his breath left his body with each blow he took. They trampled him, screaming Phil's name with no regard for the priest under their feet. Fr. Jerome felt his nose break, felt his back snap, felt his fingers smashed against the pavement. He lay there, inhaling his own blood, choking on the iron taste.

And then suddenly it was over. No more chants. No more feet upon him.

He heard footsteps approach. Miraculously, he was able to raise his head a little to see brown loafers filled with freckled feet standing before him. Fr. Jerome groaned.

"Would you like my healing now, Father?"

Gasping, Fr. Jerome lifted his head even further, finding sudden strength he did not know he had left in his crushed body. He shook his head.

"Well, that's a shame. God would like me to heal you anyway."

Fr. Jerome whipped his head back and forth, groaning, grunting, moaning. In his mind, he screamed for Phil not to touch him, and the thoughts exited as wet gurgles from his throat.

The loafer feet raised onto their heels and knees protruded in Fr. Jerome's face as Phil knelt. "Come and receive," he whispered, stretching out his hands.

A bright flash from the clouds exploded in his eyes, a sound roared in his ears and, with sudden confidence and strength, Fr. Jerome found his voice again. "No."

His eyes flew open.

"Dad!"

Fr. Jerome heard slow, steady beeping sounds. His eyes first noticed the rectangular ceiling light beaming upon his face; he then saw the tubes in his hand, his son in the corner of the room with wide, blue eyes, and Phil Jameson.

Phil stood by the hospital bed, his face pale and his eyes wide. His hands were outstretched towards the priest, but nowhere near his skin, as if Fr. Jerome had woken just before his hands made contact with him. His mouth hung open.

"Philip Jameson," Fr. Jerome spoke calmly, but his eyes were deadly. "Keep your filthy hands away from me."

He stepped backwards, hands raised. "I didn't touch you."

Pushing past Phil, Mariel rushed towards the bed. Tears spilled from his eyes. "Dad, thank God!"

Fr. Jerome gripped his son's hand, his eyes still on Phil with quiet forewarning. "It's okay, son. I'm free now." He turned his eyes to Mariel as Phil slowly backed out of the room. "But we have a lot to talk about."