The Praying Well

Prologue iii-1

Prologue iii

At last, the final few folks came in through the gates. Father Sandoval was glad, his legs were about to give out and he couldn't let anyone see the crippled old man he was becoming. No he mustn't let them see this dilapidation of their revered Father. As he swung the two iron gates to a close, something caught the corner of his eye inside the grounds. These fools know that the grounds were off limits! Who had the nerve to disobey the rules? He quickly latched the gate, and moved with the speed of a young sprite.

The church lot consisted of two oversized spaces: The south side held a well-manicured lawn and garden. It stretched from the front sidewalk to the alleyway. Large oak trees stood tall in front and back, while little walkways of individual stone pathways crisscrossed in a maze. The building itself stood on the north half of the lot, but did not butt against the property line. Instead a ten foot patch full of trees, shrubs, and bushes grew wildly there – it was the one area on the property that didn’t win its owner’s attention. This area was bordered on the north side by the black iron gate that encircled the entirety of the lot. Father Sandoval made his way to this area and peered back through the path -- the growth was so thick he could see only the first ten feet of overlapping greenery. His keen senses felt something was there, the fear in the air was as vivid as the rain on his head was cold. Who dare come here and disobey his rules?

At the same time the anger exploded within him, his excitement was far more electric. The thrill at the possibility of finding and punishing the person responsible – that was a plus on this day. He started to make his way through the brush, sweeping aside branches and trudging through the mud. As he walked, he never took his eyes off of the brush ahead – not wanting to miss a glimpse of the slightest movement. The brush became thicker as he made his way further, and the ground was a thick wet muck. He was determined to catch this person, but he also had to keep an eye on the time – it was almost 9 o'clock.

The blankets of rain made it all that harder to see; droplets bounced off low branches and leaves and stung his old eyes. He made it halfway through the brush, but came across nothing. He was certain there was someone here. But at the same time, he could see that it would be almost impossible to continue through the brush all the way to the back yard – the brush was too thick and the ground was unforgiving. Something small had made its way through-- it had to be small otherwise he would have spotted them.

But he tried to continue nonetheless, trudging through as best he could. He could feel the fear in the air closer than ever. He could taste it, like the saltiness of the raindrops, it filled his palette. He could see there were disturbances in the mud and the bushes. There were tracks hidden beneath the bushes -- smallish, almost child size tracks. He thought he knew who it was, he thought he knew who this small intruder was, but the only question was if he would have enough time to find the trespasser. He continued to make his way, inch by inch slowly, breathing heavily, but excitedly at the prospect of predator capturing prey. His breathing changed from a fast rasping sound to a low guttural sound, almost a growling.

He glanced at his watch. 8:55AM. He had to stop. It was too much for this body as well: Too much, too slow. Five minutes until mass -- and the mass must commence exactly on time.

He took once last look towards to rear and immediately turned and made his way back out of the thicket. Admittedly he was disappointed, but he had to move fast. The branches of the low trees reached out like fingers poking and prodding at him – almost locking him in place. He immediately had a vision of skin and bone reaching out – menacing hands grasping at him making one last attempt at stopping the inevitable. He laughed at the very thought and tore away at the nuisance. He forced his way through, almost ripping away his jacket, but he finally made his way to the front and stood on the cement walkway up front. His shoes wore a crown of mud an inch thick; the bottoms of his pants were filthy beyond cleaning, and his jacket was soaking wet, but everything was untattered.

He turned to look again into the thicket. Oh well, he thought, it didn't really matter anymore. He just wished he could be there when the trespasser tried to climb the ten foot fence to get out! He looked down at his shoes and tried to stamp out the mud as best he could, but when he turned his gaze, his anger reappeared – stronger than ever.

“What!” “My chain!” His voice roared, but was lost to the hiss of the rain. He was utterly dumbfounded. It must've snagged on one of the trees, he thought. No, it can’t be! He looked at his watch again. There was no time, no time at all. He couldn’t go back, it was useless. It would have to wait until somehow he could retrieve it. The hour was at hand, he couldn’t deny it.

“Dammit all to hell!” He yelled. This time his voice carried with the cool wind – like a dark cloud floating low to the ground. He must get it back…he must!

This was bad, he thought as he paced on the walkway. This was very bad -- especially after the incident in the desert. But he had to deal with it now. He could deal with it – he knew he could, but the timing of it wasn’t certain. He was almost positive of who had trampled his property, and that made it easy to contemplate the next steps. He cursed the brush one last time, and proceeded into the church, quickly locking the double doors with key, and stomping his feet as he walked across the marble floor in between the hundreds of parishioners who awaited him eagerly.

Inside the church it was dead quiet. No whispers, no talk, nothing but the low pitter patter of the rain outside. The people in the pews stood straight, eyes looking forward, while a mass of bodies stood in the rear, standing in orderly lines behind the last set of pews. Everyone waiting patiently, with their dripping clothes forming puddles of water underneath them. The Father briskly made his way towards the podium, walking as if the morning's pain in his limbs were but a distant memory. A large thunder cracked overhead, off in the distance the rumble echoed towards the church. Still far off, thought the Father, but it would soon be upon them, he was certain. He made it up the steps to the podium and positioned himself to speak but took a quick glance at his watch: Nine o'clock. Right on time.

"My friends, thank you for coming out on this beautiful, but wet day." The Father began in a deep reverberating voice that rang out clearly to the very last parishioner standing in the rear of the church. There was not breathlessness in it, just a vibrant strong ring. “I want you to understand that there was no way around it, there can only be one mass today".

The crowd stood quiet; the hallows of the wind could be heard against the building. “I brought you all out today in one great group to bring some very important news to you. This news will affect all of you personally. You are my followers, you are my flock, and you must know you are my strength!” He paused for effect as there would be no reaction to his words from the crowd, as was expected.

"For all of these years this has been my home, here in this wonderful city of Chicago. I came here from a long ways away, it seems a million miles away. And truthfully, it seems a million years ago as well. All these years, slowly but surely, you have made me feel most welcome. All of you, all of you who have come to my house – and the house of God, and have come to listen, to learn, and to pray. I am truly thankful that you chose this church to share your prayers with me."

Another uneventful thunder boomed in the distance – this one was apparently closer than the last, as the windows loosely rattled in their slots. This time, there was an uneasy movement about the crowd as they glanced around the room and shifted in their seats. Father Sandoval quickly resumed, not wanting to lose his audience for one second to what he considered a sideshow of nature.

"You came to me and you came to this church to bear your souls, to pray for your family, and to pray for your friends. I've tried to be the beacon for that hope. I've tried to be the conduit, or middleman, if you will, for your prayers. I hope that I've brought you the faith that you deserve. But now, it has come to an end.”

Gasps and rumbles of conversation erupted everywhere -- something unheard of during any one of his masses.

"Tomorrow is a day that all of you have been waiting for! It is a day that begins the province of peace. It is a day that begins the ending of the atrocities that man delivers upon man. Tomorrow, my friends, the Lord grants the world its prayers: Tomorrow begins the ending of the great war!"

The crowd exploded in unison; the chatter echoed across the pews. There were no whispers this time, but conversation and surprise. They stirred in their seats, all around the little church. A few began openly sobbing, others followed suit with smiles, laughter, and hand holding. The news from the priest was taken as the truth, the gospel. There was no inkling of politics, or of untruths. What he said was the truth, for his parishioners.

In the very front row, Mr. Johnson, who had up until now sat quietly, stood up for a few seconds seemingly disoriented, but then slumped back in his chair before drawing any attention to himself.

Father Sandoval quenched his thirst for the emotion of the crowd, he drank it up as if it were fuel: The joy pouring from these people, the laughter and happiness. The pure hope that he brought to these people, all coming to fruition here at this one moment. But soon, it would end. The laughter would turn to cries of pain, the joy to a deepest darkest misery, only then it would end.

The Father continued. "This country has developed a weapon that will put an end to this war and all others in the near future", he said this with a sprinkling of enthusiasm. "This weapon will be put to use tomorrow on Japanese soil!”

The gasps in the audience overwhelmed the room, but just as quickly they fizzled out.

“It won’t be used on the enemy's armies, nor on their soldiers…but instead on the enemy's women and children! This is what your country has deemed acceptable to end the war – to bring back America’s young men home. A trade of their children for yours... a fair trade don't you think?”

He looked around his church, slowly assessing their faces as they heard the news. They had no care in the world for the enemy, they had no care in the world for the innocents, only for themselves. As his gaze went across the room, it came upon Mr. Johnson who was standing several steps away from the podium.

“It's all a big lie!" Mr. Johnson shouted. "All he's said is a big fat lie. All that he's telling you is a big fat lie! The war isn't ending tomorrow! Read the papers, it will continue for years.” His voice was strong, but underneath it was filled with uncertainty and fright.

"And you know why this is a lie,” he continued. “Because Father Sandoval is a liar! A liar and murderer!”

Father Sandoval held back for a minute, he wanted to see how far Mr. Johnson would go with this newfound courage.

"Mr. Johnson, I please ask you to take a seat and let the mass continue. I know for a fact you had a few drinks this morning, so I do suggest for all of our sakes that you take your seat. Your been disruptive enough in this sacred place." Mr. Johnson looked back at the crowd but received no direction from them.