David Dickinson: Death of a Pilgrim

Shortly before nine o’clock the storm grew ever fiercer. Brilliant flashes of lightning shot past the windows. Claps of thunder sounded from the skies. The rain still pounded on the windows. Father Kennedy, the sermon in his head on the workings of God’s grace nearly finished now, wondered if this was an omen. Was his God, Yahweh the ever living, sending a sign that James Delaney was close to death now? Were the young man’s days and nights in his wilderness of pain and suffering coming to an end? Looking out of the window at the raging tempest outside, he thought that the fanciful and the superstitious might think that the end of the world was nigh. Was James’s passing going to be marked by this display of the power of nature, and, for Father Kennedy, of the power of God? He checked that his little box with all the necessaries for performing the last rites was still at his feet.

Dr Moreland had been replaced by the younger man, Dr Stead. He brought with him a medical journal which he read from time to time, making notes or marks in the margin with a silver pen. By eleven o’clock the storm outside showed signs of abating in its fury. James Delaney was still breathing. The doctor beckoned to the elder Delaney and to Father Kennedy and Sister Dominic to follow him to a little room off the main ward that served as a nurse’s office. Timetables, rotas and pictures of the Virgin lined the walls. He motioned them to be seated.

‘I thought I should bring you up to date on our thinking about this case,’ he began. Michael Delaney felt a moment of resentment. His son was more than a case. ‘James’, the doctor carried on, ‘is still with us. We do not know how long it will take for the drugs to pass out of his system. Certainly their power is less, considerably less, than it was twelve hours ago. Our hypothesis, and it is only a hypothesis, has been that if the withdrawal was going to kill him, it would probably have done so by now.’

‘Does that mean, Doctor,’ said Delaney, the hat spinning ever faster in his hands, ‘that he is going to recover, that he’s getting better?’

Dr Stead had heard this note of hope against all the odds many times before. ‘I don’t think we could say that. Not yet. Not now. At this point the absence of bad news is almost good news. That is all I can say, I’m afraid. It’s too soon for hope, for the present.’

Delaney pressed him. ‘I understand your qualifications, of course I do. But would you say that his chances of recovery are better now? Better than they were, I mean?’

The doctor looked down at his journal. ‘I would not wish to give you false hope. But if you pressed me, I should say that the answer is yes. Or probably yes. Our knowledge is so limited. Forgive me, but I have been looking at a recent article in my medical journal here about the process of dying. It is, if you like, a timetable of the way death comes over the body. It is concerned with diseases similar to, but obviously not the same, as James Delaney’s. It suggests to me that if he were going to pass away, he would have done so by now. I emphasize the word “suggests”. We could be wrong.’

Delaney was still looking for comfort. ‘Should we be more hopeful now? Is the worst over?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘I could not agree to that at this moment. The crisis is not over. It may yet be ahead of us, I don’t know. But the breathing has become slightly more regular in the last two or three hours. His colour may be fractionally better. That is good.’

‘And what’, Delaney went on, ‘would you have us do now? Should we stay with him through the night?’

‘That is entirely up to you. I think I would say that you should go home and rest before you come back. Lack of sleep is well known for causing lack of judgement. You have to weigh in the balance the possibility of his leaving us while you are away against the need to remain strong for the days ahead, as you certainly have done up till now, Mr Delaney. Dr Moreland or I will stay on duty by the bedside.’

‘I see,’ said Delaney. ‘Thank you so much for keeping us in the picture.’

Father Kennedy added his weight to the doctor’s opinion. ‘I too think you should go home, Michael. I’m sure we can leave the young man in the hands of the medical staff. And, of course, in the hands of God.’

Delaney made up his mind quickly. In his own kingdom of finance he was famous for it. Father Kennedy accompanied him down the long corridor that led out of the hospital. They would both return in a couple of hours.

‘Father, can you tell me some more about that saint on the wall? I’ve been looking at him all day. St James the Greater, you said he was called?’

‘Fisherman, disciple, martyr,’ Father Kennedy replied. ‘He was beheaded for his beliefs by Herod Agrippa, grandson of the biblical Herod, in about 44 AD. Legend has it that his body was taken to the north-western coast of Spain in a stone boat. His remains were discovered centuries later.’

‘And what was he made a saint for?’ asked Delaney, pausing suddenly.

‘If you were a disciple and a martyr,’ said Father Kennedy, ‘it was virtually certain that you would become a saint some day. In fact, St James the Greater became much more famous after his death than he had been in his life. They made him the patron saint of Spain, for one thing. In the countries where they speak Spanish or Portuguese, the name Santiago is the same as our James. There are cities and churches and statues of him all over the Iberian Peninsula and in South America. During the centuries when the Spanish were trying to expel the Moors from Spain, the story goes that Santiago would appear on the battlefield on a mighty horse, wielding a great sword and urging his troops on to victory. “Santiago Matamoros!” was the battle cry of the Spanish soldiers. “Santiago the Slayer of Moors!”’

‘You implied, Father,’ said Delaney, resuming his walk towards the main doors, ‘that his military powers were one of the reasons for him becoming famous after his death. Are there others?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Father Kennedy. ‘A great city grew up close to the place where the body was found. A great cathedral was built in his honour and in his name. It became a place of pilgrimage in the Middle Ages, one of the most important pilgrimages in Christendom. Jerusalem and Rome were the most important sites, but Jerusalem was not a healthy place to go to at the time of the Crusades and Rome was in the hands of the barbarians. Thousands and thousands of pilgrims from all over Europe made the journey.’

Father Kennedy paused and looked Delaney in the eye. ‘I think we may have witnessed a miracle here tonight, my friend. If that is the case, and your son James survives, as I believe and pray he will, we must put it down to the intervention of St James the Greater, praying for your son in his picture on the wall.’

‘And what was the name of the city with the cathedral?’ asked Delaney.

‘The city? I forgot to tell you. The city is still there. It is called Santiago de Compostela, James of the field of stars.’

As the two men passed out into the wet night the bells of New York began to peal the midnight hour. It was Sunday in Manhattan.

3

James Delaney didn’t die on Sunday. He was still alive on Monday.

Always now, Delaney had a special prayer of his own as he roamed the corridors of the hospital and watched over his son. On Tuesday James opened his eyes and smiled weakly at his father. The snows and rain of November turned into the snows and rain of December. Early that month the doctors told Delaney his son was getting better. They were perfectly honest with him, saying that their ignorance of the disease worked both ways. They hadn’t been sure in the past that they knew how to treat his illness. Now they were not sure why he was getting better. All they could say was that doing virtually nothing seemed to work best of all and they proposed to continue with that course of non-treatment. Five days before Christmas they pronounced James Delaney out of danger. It would be a long time yet, they said, before he could come home. Delaney offered the hospital unlimited funds to study the disease that had nearly carried off his boy, saying he didn’t see why anybody else should have to suffer as much as he and his son had done. He presented monies for a five-year supply of candles for the chapel in new designs approved by Matron and Father Kennedy. He wondered then if he had fulfilled his obligations to God and man. All through the month, as the Christmas trees and Christmas decorations filled the shop windows and New York prepared to celebrate the birth of Christ, Michael Delaney was haunted by the image of St James the Greater, the brown saint in his brown background praying with fingertips joined, on the wall above his son’s bed. A strange idea haunted him too, an idea he could not shake off. Two days before Christmas he invited Father Kennedy to join him for a festive drink.