Martin & Marcella

Nineteen

In the surges of rejoicing that resounded on the fields, Martin took his share in crying out in triumph. Finally, he'd proven himself. At long last, he'd taken part in something far greater than anything he could imagine. How had it come about? His joy was short-lived, though. While echoing bellows of exultation thundered through the air, a hand on his shoulder brought the boy immediately down from his spire of happiness.

Marcella had the worry of a thousand ages in her glossed eyes. She was there, on the battlefield, she warned her brother. She was there, searching for them amongst the bodies of the dead. She'd know they were not lying slain soon enough, and She'd discover their whereabouts, if She had not already. Then, they'd bring destruction to all those around them. Marcella sensed the breath of the near-dead being pulled from their pained bodies by Her hands. The girl felt the frightful presence of Her, and she knew She was nearer than they could ever believe.

But Martin was not ready to give in. He was not yet willing to put all his triumphs aside. How much he'd gained! And if they left now, what would it all have been for? He refused to go. He turned from his sister and joined in the overwhelming glory around him. Martin loved her more than his own life, but he couldn't believe that all must suddenly be lost. That wickedness couldn't be as close as Marcella believed.

Joel sought out Fr. Kavanaugh the following day. He felt real resentment toward the man, and he couldn't let it rest. The first chance he got, Joel made his way down the halls toward the priest's school office. It was during the lunch period, and most teachers were eating. Fr. Kavanaugh was no exception. His office door was locked tight and the light inside was switched off. Joel was not deterred. He would wait all day if he had to. There were things to be discussed; it was a matter of pride and privacy. Besides that, Joel wanted very much to find fault with the priest. He detested him as much as he cared about him. The way Fr. Kavanaugh constantly compelled him to talk, the manner in which Joel poured out things he didn't want to say: these made him wonder at himself, and he had decided that this was a negative thing.

Sliding down against the wall, Joel sat outside the office door for nearly twenty minutes. He knew there would be very little time to discuss anything with Fr. Kavanaugh when he did finally return from lunch, but he didn't care. His next class was terribly dull (as all his courses were) so he did not regret that he'd miss some of it. He could wait ages now. Some part of his conscience had broken off the previous night; guilt was not something he was capable of entirely feeling.

"Joel!" said a somewhat startled voice overhead. The boy looked up and saw Fr. Kavanaugh standing above him, glaring down with a spreading frown. "What did you do to your eye?"

Joel had nearly forgotten. The pain in his cheek was minimal now, and if it hadn't been for the strange stares he was receiving from other students, he'd have forgotten about his feud with his father entirely. He touched his fingertips to his eye saying, "Oh . . . I don't . . . it doesn't matter really."

"It looks like it hurt, though. You need to take better care of yourself." The man went to his door and jostled his keys until he found one that fit in the lock. Then he opened his office and went inside.

Joel followed, wanting to feel furious, wanting to shout and accuse. But something held him back. He didn't feel confident showing anger toward the priest.

"Father," he began hoarsely, not sure what he even wanted to say.

Fr. Kavanaugh lifted his eyes but didn't say anything. He expected Joel to continue, though; it was evident in his face.

"I . . . have a question." Joel paused. He was dying for something to interrupt him. Why couldn't Fr. Kavanaugh just say he was too busy and ask Joel to leave? That would've been too easy, the boy knew. "It's kind of weird-sounding. I don't want you to take it the wrong way."