Рэй Брэдбери: The Messiah

«You — you are a Martian, then?»

«No more. No less.»

«And I have done this to you with my thoughts?»

«You did not mean. When you came downstairs, your old dream seized and made me over. My palms still bleed from the wounds you gave out of your secret mind.»

The Priest shook his head, dazed.

«Just a moment more… wait…»

He gazed steadily, hungrily, at the darkness where the Ghost stood out of the light. That face was beautiful. And, oh, those hands were loving and beyond all description.

The Priest nodded, a sadness in him now as if he had within the hour come back from the true Calvary. And the hour was gone. And the coals strewn dying on the sand near Galilee.

«If — if I let you go ―»

«You must, oh you must!»

«If I let you go, will you promise ―»

«What?»

«Will you promise to come back?»

«Come back?» cried the Figure in the darkness.

«Once a year, that's all I ask, come back once a year, here to this place, this font, at the same time of night ―»

«Come back…?»

«Promise! Oh, I must know this moment again. You don't know how important it is! Promise, or I won't let you go!»

«I ―»

«Say it! Swear it!»

«I promise,» said the pale Ghost in the dark. «I swear.»

«Thank you, oh thanks.»

«On what day a year from now must I return?»

The tears had begun to roll down the young Priest's face now.

He could hardly remember what he wanted to say and when he said it he could hardly hear:

«Easter, oh. God, yes, Easter, a year from now!»

«Please, don't weep,» said the figure. «I will come. Easter, you say? I know your calendar. Yes. Now ―» The pale wounded hand moved in the air, softly pleading. «May I go?»

The Priest ground his teeth to keep the cries of woe from exploding forth. «Bless me, and go.»

«Like this?» said the voice.

And the hand came out to touch him ever so quietly.

«Quick!» cried the Priest, eyes shut, clenching his fists hard against his ribs to prevent his reaching out to seize. «Go before I keep you forever. Run. Run!»

The pale hand touched him a last time upon his brow. There was a soft run of naked feet.

A door opened upon stars; the door slammed.

There was a long moment when the echo of the slam made its way through the church, to every altar, into every alcove and up like a blind flight of some single bird seeking and finding release in the apse. The church stopped trembling at last, and the Priest laid his hands on himself as if to tell himself how to behave, how to breathe again; be still, be calm, stand tall….

Finally, he stumbled to the door and held to it, wanting to throw it wide, look out at the road which must be empty now, with perhaps a figure in white, far fleeing. He did not open the door.

He went about the church, glad for things to do, finishing out the ritual of locking up. It was a long way around to all the doors. It was a long way to next Easter.

He paused at the font and saw the clear water with no trace of red. He dipped his hand and cooled his brow and temples and cheeks and eyelids.

Then he went slowly up the aisle and laid himself out before the altar and let himself burst forth and really weep. He heard the sound of his sadness go up and come back in agonies from the tower where the bell hung silent.

And he wept for many reasons.

For himself.

For the Man who had been here a moment ago.

For the long time until the rock was rolled back and the tomb found empty again.

Until Simon-Called-Peter once more saw the Ghost upon the Martian shore, and himself Simon-Peter.

And most of all he wept because, oh, because, because… never in his life could he speak of this night to anyone….