Here we have a delightfully new addition to the menagerie of writings here on the website. It is going to be a slow burn of a story, but it will be worth it if you like a good Catholic Mysticism yarn. Or are just a fan of psychopathy in general without being affiliated with Mother Church.
Mouseover any languages you don’t understand for translations.
Now, Let’s do some storytelling.
“Exorcizámos te, ómnis immúnde spíritus…”
James walked down the stairs of the house, his face composed, and his cassock wrapped tightly around him to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the muggy July evening he found himself surrounded by. His fingers clasped the rosary in his fist tightly, feeling the top of the cross containing the Lord poking into the flesh of his hand. His eyes were all but closed as he reached the landing, so when he heard a voice from the darkness, it startled him, and his eyes opened quickly to see the afflicted girl’s mother in front of him.
“S’il te plaît, mon père, dis-moi comment va mon bébé?” The French-Canadian woman stood in front of him, wringing one hand in the other, smears from makeup long wept off, lined her face, and the exhaustion she felt was evident and visceral to him.
“The Rites are just now beginning Elizabet, it will take some time, but Father Jacobi is the best save the Lord himself in doing this task. I ask you, please, go to your room and rest, and we will send news to you when there is something to tell you.” Elizabet merely nodded her head as the weeping began anew, and she left.
Fucking weak-willed people. How the fuck does she think her fucking daughter is doing? If she were at Chuck E. Cheese she wouldn’t ask the little shit if she was having fun, so why the fuck would she ask if she was okay during an unsanctioned exorcism performed by a blind man who was, at best, barely literate in the Rites he was performing and James, a priest who hated God so much the thought of praying made him vomit every single night before he went to bed before the dreams of Ambitious Destiny took him.
He opened the back door to the overly resplendent house in the shit hole village of Puvirnituq, a place out near the Arctic Circle on the Povungnituk River in as north in the province of Quebec as you can get and still be in Quebec. He had been dragged up here by that damn blind Quebecois priest Jacobi because he spoke the language and had a vehicle with four-wheel drive. 1,500 fucking kilometers so he could pretend the beautifully psychopathic girl who ripped her brothers’ arms off with a homemade thresher was possessed by Beelzebub, Prince of Hell.
Fucking raving lunatic.
James lit a cigarette and quickly pulled a quarter of it into his lungs, having been deprived for several hours he was desperately in need. He had about ten minutes if he heard the Latin correctly. Jacobi would chant the words and bring him in at the very end for the coup de grace of the whole affair. He kicked the piles of mud that were soaking into his cassock for a few minutes before spitting into the face of the wooden bird that stood stupidly in the yard as a bird-feeder and flicked the remnants of his cigarette away and walked back into the house and slowly up the stairs. Just as he opened the door, he heard Jacobi end the rite.
“Sánctus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dóminus Déus Sábaoth.”
Lord of Hosts indeed.
James opened the door and saw the girl sitting there, in the exact same position as she had been in when James went downstairs. She smiled as he walked into the room, and James returned the smile to the little girl before quickly telling Jacobi to go to Elizabet and tell her that the Rite had been performed and that she looked much better than she had when they arrived and that all would be well. He nodded and mumbled his thanks and closed the door behind him.
Some lies were worth telling, right.
James sat at the in a small chair at the foot of the bed and cracked his neck a few times, the loud popping noise making the little girl, Christiana, giggle. James winked at her and spoke very slowly and exceptionally directly to the little girl who was everything but.
“Christiana, I want to thank you for telling Jacobi the things he needed to hear before he left. You made him feel useful again; as if the fuck could get any more useless.” The language nor the subject didn’t remove the smile from the face of the child. Her voice was a hollow and vacant thing, the smile dropping from her face as she spoke, and the true little girl emerged. The slight hint of a lisp seemed to simply accentuate the words she said instead of hindering them.
“He is just a lonely old man who wants to die but can’t kill himself without the invisible man getting mad at him for it. You’ll make sure he gets what he wants, won’t you?’
James smiled softly and nodded. “In fact, I promise he will get exactly that.” He stood up and pulled a card with a green diamond on a white background out of his pocket with a phone number on it. “When you are done doing what you need to do here, call this number, and I will take you to where you can have a lot more fun.”
© 2019, TheJameyBear. All rights reserved.
I am JameyBear. Liberal. Hippie. Dad. Widower. Poet. Author. Sarcastic Ass. Friend. Lover. Hater.
I have lied and cheated, stolen and done violence in word and deed.
I have given the shirt off my back and they wanted the skin underneath instead.
I am a notorious soft touch, wearing my heart on my sleeve and wanting to make everyone happy.
I tip too much, too often, too many places, and it is has burned me even as recent as this week.
I love everyone I have ever hated still. I will always love the memory of being in love with them.
I want to be your friend. No. I want you to want me to be your friend.
I am clingy and needy, dependent and hopelessly lost in times that I will never live in.
I use language that was archaic when archaic was a new word in the early 19th century.
I want to record myself reading everything so people won’t forget me when I disappear.
I talk too much, listen too deeply, process too quickly and infer way too much.
My beard is also better than yours