Dark Yule

It's Christmastime—five days before Christmas and the congregation is decked with happy wreaths, pruned poinsettias and a trough in the nave. Behind the trough, a few dull fir trees stretch up toward the sky, and close to the highest point of one tree, glimmers a star.

I watch the energized countenances of kids and feel an ache of depression as I review my goals as a twenty-year old seminarian. In those days I had no clue how barren the abstinent life could be. However, presently I know.

"No doubt about it," old Bishop Wierton regularly reminds me.

But, I likewise realize the abstinent life isn't for me.

The hardest part is the night watches when I lie wakeful gazing at Victoria Woods' flawless face sparkling back at me.

I press my eyes shut, attempting by sheer self control to oust the stunning spirit that frequents me even now—in the sacristy of St. Tristan's—in the very areas of God.

My endeavors are vain however—you can exorcize evil spirits, yet you can't cast out the substance.

These ruminations are hindered by the high pitched, about insane voice of Abigail Hoyt, the congregation organist.

"Gracious Father, express gratitude toward God I discovered you. It was awful—simply horrendous."

She's shaking and her face is pale. "I'm needing remission—I'm condemned without a doubt."

I get her by the two shoulders and gaze legitimately at her. "Quiet down, Abigail, and mention to me what occurred."

"I saw the fallen angel himself prowling in the shadows of the steeple. For whatever length of time that I live, I'll always remember those red eyes puncturing through me."

Angelo, the caretaker is persistently holding up behind her. He gets my attention and gives his shoulders a shrug.

"Did you see anything, Angelo?"

"I went up there, Father—looked at the room where the ringers pause and even went up the iron strides to the steeple top—yet there was nothing. Nothing."

He lets out the final word like an exclamation and scowls at Abigail, associating her some way or another with sabotaging his custodial consideration of the premises.

"I comprehend what I saw, Father—it was ghastly. I could scarcely inhale, breathing in those sulfurous exhaust."

Angelo feigns exacerbation, yet Abigail won't be cowed. "Celia Duncan saw it too a week ago and Betty Rose."

"Insane Betty?" Angelo sneers. "She has bats in her tower."

"Enough! If you don't mind allows all be magnanimous. Recall love is patient and kind."

"So be it," Abigail murmurs. Angelo brings down his look, reasonably rebuked.

"I'll sprinkle some heavenly water up there later and implore a gift."

Angelo gestures and withdraws once more into the shadows of the asylum.

"Much obliged to you, Father." Abigail has a particular look of alleviation all over.

I contact her elbow as she's leaving and murmur in her ear, "I'll see you at Vespers today around evening time, Abigail—and incidentally, you needn't bother with remission. Numerous holy people have seen devils. It doesn't mirror an absence of holiness—frequently, the inverse."

"Favor you, Father—you genuinely are a holy person."

I grin remorsefully as she proceeds on her way.

Devilish action in a congregation at Christmas—the idea is detestable—and it's going on my watch.

I start to surrender to an influx of blame. The idea happens to me that I may be the purpose behind this mysterious movement.

I'm responsible for the congregation and I'm living in wrongdoing, breaking my pledges by subtly fixating on Victoria Woods.

I've given the fiend a solid footing in the area and it's dependent upon me to manage it.

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