Title:  Observances
Author:  cofax
Rating:  G
Category:  V, A
Keywords:  Small amount of ScullyAngst
Summary:  Scully makes a once-yearly visit.
Archiving:  Gossamer ok, anyone else please ask.
Notes:  Yes, I've read "Shadow of His Wings" by Marguerite, and 
it's lovely.  No, I didn't write this as a conscious response - 
in fact, I'd forgotten the story until after I finished this.  
Call it time-lapse synchronicity, or a subconscious tribute.

Feedback makes me do the wacky.  Send it to cofax7@yahoo.com.


***
Observances
by cofax
September 1999




I sneak a glance into the nave, through the door I left ajar, 
while I shrug my arms into the heavy silk of the robe.  My 
anxiety is unseemly, I admit, but I am an old man, so I indulge 
my harmless frailties.  I have few sins left to me, and 
curiosity, while inappropriate in the confessional, is not venal.

She is not there.

Perhaps this is the year she does not come.  Perhaps something 
has happened to her.  Perhaps she is dead.  Perhaps ---   But I 
stop the spinning of my undisciplined mind, and turn it back to 
the upcoming liturgy.

This is an important feast day, although few recognize it now.  
The second of November has long since lost any significance to 
the majority of Catholics, even though the second-most widely 
celebrated holiday in the hemisphere derives its significance 
from its proximity to the Feasts of All Saints and All Souls.  
These days, October 31st is simply a festival, with none of the 
awe associated with the approach of the day when we remember our 
dead, and pray for their souls as they suffer in Purgatory 
awaiting redemption.

I finish vesting, and slip around to the rear of the church.  
When I nod once, Frances begins pounding on the ancient organ, 
and the congregation, randomly dispersed through the church with 
a concentration towards the center aisle, lurches to its elderly 
feet.  Jeremy, altar boy for the week, precedes me solemnly with 
the cross.  He looks so solemn, no one who sees him in his white 
robe would ever guess the havoc he raises when he is out of arm's 
reach of myself or Sister Mary Katherine.

We reach the altar, Jeremy carefully mounts the cross in its 
stand, and I turn to address the congregation, such as it is on 
this grey Tuesday.  As I lift my hands for the invocation, the 
left rear door opens and a slight figure, wrapped in a long black 
coat, enters the church.  I sigh with relief.  

She is here.

I was afraid that this year she would not come.  I do not know 
who she is, nor why I only see her on All Souls' Day.  She is 
clearly Catholic: she speaks the liturgy as only one raised in it 
can, and her right hand slides through the sign of the cross 
without hesitation, without thought.  For years I wondered why 
she came to my church only one day out of the year, but I think I 
understand now.  If your need is great enough, I was taught to 
believe, only our patron Saint Jude can help you.

And her needs are great, as measured by her losses.

I also wondered who she was, but I have stopped: it does not 
matter.  What matters is that every year for the past six, she 
has come to this church in search of something unknowable to 
anyone but God and his saints.  And every year the weight she 
carries has grown.  Where once she was brightly lit, the flame of 
her faith reflected in the color of her clothing, now she wears 
only shadows.  Her pale and lovely face is no less beautiful, but 
it is etched now with grief, fear, and such weariness as I have 
not seen since I was in Italy during the war.  I fear for her; 
her burdens seem so distant from those of my parishioners that 
she might as well be from a different time, a different land.

She comes to the mass on this Holy Day, speaks the responses, 
mouths the prayers, takes communion; but I think that for her, 
the most important part of the day comes after the Mass is over 
and I have dismissed the congregation to go in peace with God.  
Every year she does the same thing, and every year I watch her.  
This year, once again, she performs a ritual of her own devising.

When the church is empty and quiet, filled with candlelight, 
incense, and the echoes of sanctity, she approaches the altar and 
genuflects deeply.  Then she turns to the right, to the tiny 
sanctuary dedicated to the Blessed Mother, where there is a large 
rack of candles.  Reaching deep into her pockets, she takes out a 
handful of bills, places them in the tiny box mounted in front, 
and begins to light candles.

The first year I noticed her, she only lit two candles.  The 
second year there were more.  There have been more candles every 
year.

Now I fear to keep count, for the candles all have names. 

I know I should not, but just as I do every year, I watch her.  
Before lighting each candle, she kneels for a long moment in 
prayer, her hands clasped in front of her face.  Then she stands, 
lights a candle, murmuring a name.  

Last year, I lingered near the altar, fussily folding cloths and 
trimming wicks, and shamelessly eavesdropped while she called 
upon the dead.  The first name I heard was "Melissa."  The second 
sounded like "Samantha." 

The next several names came with more difficulty, as if she did 
not want to say the words.  Her voice was lower; her face, so 
serene during Mass, now betrayed a mixture of anger, grief, and a 
strangely reluctant penitence. When she prayed before lighting 
these candles, her hands were clasped so tightly I could hear her 
knuckles crack from where I hovered around the altar.  I did not 
hear these names, her voice was so low.  But despite the anguish 
they clearly caused her, she prayed for each.

I was reminded of one of my penitents, who regularly confesses to 
me sins that he does not truly repent.  As a social worker, he 
must remove children from their parents' homes when they are 
placed at risk.  He fears that interfering between parents and 
children is a sin, but knows that leaving the children in such a 
situation would be a greater one.  I always grant him absolution, 
though I do not think he truly believes he deserves it.

The redheaded woman's face then softened.  The next few names she 
spoke clearly, her face not yet calm, but grief and guilt were 
now untempered by ambivalence.  "Roberta," she said.  Then, at 
the next candle, "Jack."

Last fall there was a new name, a different name.  She did 
something she had never done before, and moved to the rack of the 
largest candles, the ones that burn all day and require a five 
dollar donation.   There she prayed for a long time, her hands 
not clasped together but covering her face, her eyes held tightly 
shut.  When she finally stood to light the candle, I think her 
hand might have shaken, because she used both hands to hold the 
taper.  "Emily," she murmured.  I think she named a child: her 
voice and her face were so soft as she said the name, and her 
eyes so tender.   She gazed at the candle for a long time, 
watching the flame flicker minutely in the still air of the 
sanctuary.  I think she may have wept; but I could not watch 
this, and, wrestling the demon of my curiosity to the ground, 
went into the vestry.

This year I stay in the vestry to give her the privacy she so 
clearly requires.  But I watch her go through the entire process, 
counting silently to myself as she lights the candles.  Again, 
there are more than last year.  Just a few, but more nonetheless.  
I cross myself as she does and whisper a silent prayer for their 
souls.

Now she moves on to the last element of the ritual.  She has 
always done this, ever since the first time I saw her.  She 
leaves the chapel dedicated to the Blessed Mother, and crosses 
the apse to the other side of the church.  There she enters the 
even smaller chapel dedicated to Saint Michael the Defender, one 
of the Lord's four archangels.  In front of the statue with the 
flaming sword, she lowers herself to kneel in prayer for long 
minutes.  

When she rises, her cheeks are wet, but her eyes are clear.  
Before she lifts the taper to one of the candles already burning 
in the rack, she carefully wipes her eyes.  She is on the other 
side of the church now, and I cannot hear her when she says the 
last name.  She is not smiling, but there is something fierce in 
her face, and I think this candle, unlike all the others, is for 
the living. 


As she leaves the church at last, I know that I will continue to 
pray for her, whoever she is.  I fear that whatever comfort her 
faith gives her, is not enough to sustain her in the battles she 
fights daily, and I grieve for this child of the Church who 
shoulders such burdens alone.  I cannot help her, I fear, though 
I pray for her daily.  

I ask Saint Christopher, patron of travelers, for I see many 
miles of weary road in her step, for his blessings on her.  

I ask Saint Felicity, who watches over mothers, to intercede for 
her, for I see with her no children.  


And I ask blessed Saint Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, to 
defend her.


***

End