Father O’Reilly plodded along a deserted, dirt road outside town. Prayer held no solace recently. In the middle of a modern holy war talking to God was a solitary pursuit. God didn’t answer. Except in the symbolic and internal ways he always had. O’Reilly realized how used to company he had grown. Even if said companionship was intermittent.
Father O’Reilly missed Jack. He longed for that other voice telling him they fought the good fight. He knew he still was, but confirmation helped. He wasn’t sure if Jack was still fighting at all. Everything would be easier if the priest knew the detective was alive. It would even be easier if he knew for sure that Jack was dead.
It was a quirk of his profession that Father O’Reilly never called the police station. He trusted in providence to provide the answer. His eyes and heart would tell him the truth. Nothing else could be trusted. They might have influence over everything else.
His heart knew Jack was alive. His heart knew he was lonely. So he walked alone in the middle of nowhere. He remembered a lesson from seminary though. Not an official catechism, something an old Bishop said. When you walk with Jesus you are never alone. So Father O’Reilly walked in the woods with Jesus, asking for a miracle.
It came in the form of an abandoned amusement park. Father O’Reilly looked at this offering in the middle of his own, personal desert. Moss grew on steel, saplings threaded up through floorboards on most of the rides. What was it doing here?
O’Reilly felt a phantom hand pushing him forward, there was something there for him. As he approached the lights came on, sputtering in an attempt to die permanently. Jaunty carnival music spun up, piped in through rusty tubes that distorted the tinny sounds of childhood joy. Phantasmal but no less real the scents of cold buttered popcorn, mildew ridden hotdogs, and mold infused cotton candy wafted to his nose.
O’Reilly walked on. Why was the carousel the only ride without plants growth? He made his way to that as his own personal Jesus whispered in the center of his head. ‘Because it was always your favorite.’ True, but he must be very lonely indeed if he was so far gone he was literally hearing the voice of God. Only Archbishops and above had that privilege.
Stepping onto the carousel he walked to the pure black Arabian, also his favorite. On the saddle sat a small square of paper. A note, one the priest knew came from Jack. He lifted it and read. His heart fell, less sure about his world and his fight than ever. Was he being turned on? The simple script read…
Father,
Sometimes faith and the fight require sacrifices. I don’t want you to be mine. Keep your head down and stay hidden. Wait until you hear from me again to take up the battle again.
Your Friend
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