This box is slowly closing in on all sides in an involuntary display of what is normally undertaken most willingly by those who have scoffed at adventure and possibility.  The light slowly darkened all about, turning the remnants of immature diamonds into laughable balls of gas giving the appearance of existence, while allowing only their spirit to be seen in its last remnants…


    Uneven and carbolic in nonchalant stance and curiously enamored, William stood transfixed, starring at his childhood home.  Two long years have passed since he last laid eyes on it.  In this absence everything but somnambulism sought to destroy the image now before him.  Yet here it was, unmoved, the single light in the upper front bedroom giving the appearance of a jaunty wink.  William grasped for his throat and, met with a nostalgic roughness his face had not known since school days, ripped off his collar and breathed in the humid dual scent of gaiety and freedom.
    Newly emancipated, he immediately righted his position and began to approach the home, only to see the wink descend into darkness.  He would wait until the face was readily apparent, he decided, there was simply no more time for shadows. 
    With the comfort that he felt was reserved for birds returning to the nest after their first flight, William took refuge next to the massive old oak that bifurcated the front lawn.  His back supported by its trunk, William’s eyes gazed up to the window of what had been his room for the first 19 years of his life.  Adjacent to it was a small overhang, which, when the sky was silent, he would step out onto and simply exist with the tree.  The reminiscence quickly morphed into the last night before he left for the seminary…the idea that bottle rockets could bring so much comfort to the soul made him smile every time he thought about it.  That such simple earthly things could knock the Gods from their heavens was
unnerving and wonderful.

    When morning broke, Mrs. Hilary Temple attempted to straighten up from sleep as she opened the front door, preparing for the daily game of hide and seek with the newspaper boy and his wares.  Recently the boy had been winning.  Fully focused as she was to the task at hand, it was a moment before she identified the figure under the tree as that of a man - upon which she let out a shriek audible enough to be heard at the end of the block.  The familiar scream woke William, who raised his head and greeted Mrs. Temple with a simple “Hello Mother.”
    The realization swept over her face with the simplicity and over exaggeration of a cartoon that had not been watched for ages.  She raced over, nearly tripping over her bathrobe, and gave him a hug that effectively forced his breath out.
    “Will!  Oh why don’t you tell someone you’re coming?  What are you doing under that tree?  Did you sleep there?  How are you?  Oh won’t your sister be delighted!  You know that every night I ask Him to make sure you’re safe and here He is giving me proof of it!  You look well.”
    William was unable to get another word out as he was ushered through the front hallway and into the kitchen.  Seated once more at what had been his designated territory at the table for so many years he soon found a full breakfast appear before him.  His sister Millicent, some five years younger than him, leapt from her seat and proceeded to nearly strangle the prodigal son.  His Father removed the napkin from his chest to properly greet his offspring with a hearty handshake.  For the first time in two years the family was whole once more. 

    Picking at the elaborate meal, William was attempting to reconcile the need for such a heavy breakfast to begin the morning with, as he had grown quite used to the ascetic tenets of water and grains.  He attempted to tread the line between insulting his mother on one hand, and feeling weighed down and sluggish for the rest of the still young day on the other.  Pushing around some eggs with his fork, he looked up toward his father.  Since they last met he seemed to have aged at least ten years. 
    While Mr. Temple had long professed diving knowledge of God’s plan of salvation for the blessed, this did not create in him any peace, but rather the opposite.  Those who wouldn’t be saved must know what they were facing. 
    “What a fine piece!  Look at this Hilary.”
    Mr. Temple handed the obituary page over to his wife, pointing out the black and white photo of a Mr. Harold McGee, 68.  She took it with the air of one who had feigned interest in the same story hundreds of times over.
    “Oh yes, I had heard from his niece that he had passed on.  He was always so pleasant.”
    “No, no, woman, read the thing!”
    Mr. Temple had spent the last 22 years of his life perfecting his craft of writing obituaries for the local newspaper.  While the normal course of the chosen profession was to shy away from any blue material in a deceased person’s past, Temple did his best to expose the seamy details that crop up during the course of a lifetime.  He was proud that not one life in all those years had gotten past him without him adding well deserved shame to it.  It served as an example, he said, to the living, to show them that even in death the stain of their sins remain.
    “Well go on!  Out loud.  Let the boy know his father hadn’t slackened in his absence.”
    This was quite unnecessary, as he had his wife send William his “best work” on a weekly basis.  Yet, she cleared her throat, and with a sigh and forced smile, began to read:
    “Mr. Harold McGee, 68, lifelong resident of Summit, died Thursday of a heart attack.  A member of St. John’s Church, he valiantly served in the Army in both WWI and WWII, until the liberation of France, when he contracted syphilis from a prostitute.  Sources close to his doctor say it affected his health ever since.  Harold is survived by his wife Laura, son Robert, and daughter Cecelia.”
    Mrs. Temple tossed the paper aside. 
    “Really, was that necessary?  Harold was a nice man…”
    Mr. Temple laughed, directing his attention toward his son, “Do you know how long it took me to dig that up?  Two months!  Two full months.  No one can hide from their sins forever.  Is that what you want William, is that what you want to leave the world with - the scourge of VD?  Shameful…well?  Is that what you want?”
    Will tried his best but could not manage eye contact.
    “No sir, you know my obituary will be clean.”
    “Well I would hope so.  Can’t get into too much trouble in a seminary huh.  Still, can never be too careful, must always be on our toes.”
    William thought he should have expected it, and yet even he was somewhat surprised at just how much of a caricature his father had become.
    “Yes sir.  May I be excused?  It was a long trip and all.”
    Will waited for his father to make the necessary gesture of approval, which took the appearance of absentmindedly shooing away a fly.  His mother wiped her hands on her apron and helped him up. 
    “I’ve left your room just as you had it, just going in every Sunday to dust it.  Let’s get you all settled in.”
    Yes, his mother was exactly the same, as was his room.  The nostalgia was readily apparent, but he pushed it aside to be dealt with later, and laid down on his bed.  That hadn’t changed either - it was still as hard as a rock.  He longed for the cot he used while on missionary trips…however, this would have to do.  Within fifteen minutes he was fast asleep.

    Allowing the world to greet his eyes as slowly as possible, Will slowly turned himself onto his right side to be able to see the clock.  11:30.  Good.  His father would be at work, Millicent would be at school, and mother would be off to one church group or the other.  He took a moment to breathe it in - the silence of his room was delicious. 
    Rising and shaking off the sleep state, he stretched and instinctually went downstairs to search out the weather in the paper.  Ahh…tonight was to be another clear night.  A reflexive sign of relief swept over him, and yet, a remote depth found itself longing for a fierce lightning storm to descend upon him and illuminate the sky.
    Before leaving Summit, Will had no idea how unique the weather was here.  His father instilled in him the belief that lightning was due to God’s anger, that he was seeking out sinners to strike down.  This was something that William was never able to divorce himself from, and in fact it was this that led him to pursue the path of a man of the cloth.  He did his best to avoid any and all sinful behaviors, but original sin was inescapable.  Despite his baptism, Will was convinced that the guilt and filth he was born with could never be fully washed from him. 
    Tossing the paper aside, Will resumed his spot at the table.  Absorbing and reliving 19 years of conversations surrounding it, he shut his eyes, softly cradling his head in his hands.


    The town of Summit, Florida held the exalted distinction of having the highest concentration of lightning strikes in a single location.  For most residents of the sleepy town this was simply a fact of life, and good enough to get them mentioned in print to the few tourists passing nearby.  William, however, was absolutely terrified of the storms for as far back as he could remember - one solid crack of thunder was enough to loosen his bladder. 

    Ever since he could walk, Mr. Temple took his son along with him to deposit his check at the Benjamin Franklin National Savings Bank every week.  Upon entering the bank the mustiness of decaying currency held heavy in ones lungs, giving with it the air of generations before, of fortunes made and lost, lives squandered and saved.  Even on the most humid of Florida summers, the air within these walls had the ability to oppressively weigh down anyone who chose to visit.
    For young William, the bank was a place of new people and new promotions always milling about, all cloaked in mystery, securing his attention.  Once they made it to the highly polished marble counter, however, that all faded into oblivion.  Mr. Roberts the banker was well acquainted with the routine of Mr. Temple and brought out the bowl of candy, presenting it theatrically to William.  William obediently chose one piece (just one!) and humbly thanked Mr. Roberts. 
    With the candy successfully transubstantiated, the attention of the boy turned to its next target.  On the far back wall behind the counter hung an enormous painting of a young Ben Franklin, running in a rainstorm, his kite in hand, a large key attached to it.  Done in a series of browns and grays, the only point standing out was the blood red kite in the foreground.  Behind it, lurking ominously, stood a lighting bolt, waiting for the portentous moment to strike. 
    One day, when Mr. Roberts was having some trouble with the accounts, Temple noticed his son’s fascination with the artwork.  The authoritative voice seemed to echo through the chambers:
    “That’s Benjamin Franklin, son.”
    “Like the bank!”
    “Yes, that’s right, this institution was named after him.”
    William paused, this was an astounding revelation. “Oh….what’s he doing?”
    “Well, you see that lighting there?” 
    He did.
    “Franklin was trying to get the lighting to hit that kite rather than himself.  He was a sinner.”
    The possibility greatly intrigued Will, his eyes grew larger as he asked,  “Did it work?!?”
    “Certainly not.  It hit the kite alright, but went right down that string and struck Franklin as well.  See son, you can’t fool God, and you’re a fool for trying.”
    “What did he do to make God angry?”
    “He was a womanizer, William, a terrible womanizer.”
    Will thought about this.  It sounded like the name of a product, but he couldn’t match the name with an image.  “What’s that?” he asked.
    “Well, he was married you know, but went around with other women…kissing other women, lots of women.  Just think if I did that to your mother.  I would deserve to be struck down!  That painting serves as a reminder to all who see it - you can’t fool God.  His power is ultimate.  Sins will not go unpunished.”
    Young William immediately began reevaluating all of his past actions which had seemed benign - he mustn’t risk missing a sin.  At least he had never kissed a girl - he was safe on that account.  While this reflection momentarily cleared him of any wrongdoing, every trip to the bank afterwards reinforced the omnipotent power of the unseen hand of God.  With each successive trip Will felt the same pressures arise as on Sunday mornings - and yet, the candy tasted ever sweeter than before.

    It was a few years later when Will was met with the first major challenge to the stability of the pedestal his father sat upon.  He arrived home from school early, having run the entire way.  Conflict was evident on his face. 
    Catching his breath before his father, Will began - “Dad!  We talked about Benjamin Franklin today.  Teacher said he was a founder of our country.  She said he was a good man and I said that he was a sinner - the other kids laughed Dad!”  Tears began to run down his face.
    Mr. Temple knelt down to meet him on his level - “Here now, none of that.  Look son, you do good things, do you not?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Alright.  And you sin too, don’t you?”
    Will hesitated.  Was there a correct answer to this?
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Then, if you sin, you aren’t good, are you?”
    “No, sir.” 
    Mr. Temple stood up to allow him full use of his hands in order to reinforce his words.
    “Franklin attempted to do good works as acts of penance, but do not be tricked!  He kept on sinning until the day he died!  No matter what good works you do, if you continue to sin and defy Him, you are no better than the lowliest of sinners!”
    Will pondered this, but was unable to construct a reply.  He father nodded, which seemed to convey the authority to close the matter for good.


    Despite the years of growth, William continued to wet his pants during every lighting storm.   While unable to control his bladder, he had come up with a system to deal with this fact, taking every precaution possible, including dedicated checking of the weather reports, (it was strange how the weather reporters seemed to have the inside track on God’s fury…) and sitting out entire storms whenever possible in the bathroom.   He was at least an intelligent enough sinner to know what he deserved and what he was in for if he was not eternally vigilant.

    The stain of original sin continued to follow him everywhere he went.  Wise men, his father told him, stayed clear not only of sin, but also of the circumstances that could lead to sin.  To this end he rarely left the house other than for school, and in fact rarely did much of anything. 
    The only real friend he could call his own was Rebecca.  Rebecca, besides living next door, was born within weeks of Will.  For sheer convenience if nothing else, their mothers decided to make them playmates.  Surprisingly, it stuck.

    William’s days were lonely, but pious.  He was glad when the  Heavenly gift of a sister came along, but the five year difference often held them on completely different paths.
    Will feared for his classmates, and yet remained jealous of their ignorance.  This was the hardest sin of all for him to seek absolution for.
    Long before graduating high school Will had determined the only course of action, the only way possible to avoid wrath and damnation, was to take the holy oath and become a priest himself.  His father couldn’t have been more proud.  His mother hadn’t shed such tears since hearing she was pregnant with Millicent.

    The night before Will was to begin his journey north to the seminary, a party was thrown in his honor at the house.  This consisted of Will, his mother, father, and sister, along with Rebecca and her parents.  It was perhaps the most joyous occasion the house had ever beheld - even Mr. Temple was in good spirits.  Will cautiously enjoyed himself  - all the reports predicted a sizeable storm brewing, and thus he refrained from all liquids for the night.
    With the clocks approaching double digits, the night wound down and the revelry dispersed.  Goodbyes having been said, Will was in his bedroom, preparing to spend the night in the bathroom.  The first claps of thunder could be heard in the distance, and he hurriedly tried to decide which edition of the Book would accompany him.  There was a loud ‘clang’  and Will turned to see, not lighting, but a ladder against the overhang, soon followed by Rebecca.
    She smiled. “Hey.”
    He looked down at his pants.  “Hi.”
    “Look Will, I don’t want to say goodbye yet, I’m going to miss you.  I thought we could hang out, just us and the storm.”  He felt the quiver of an unquenchable smile on his lips.

    As the storm reached full peal, the two greeted it sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, discussing the future as only two teenagers can do.  Just then a loud crack shook the night.  Will checked his pants - he was okay.  He looked up to see Rebecca now at the open window, smiling back at him.  She started out onto the overhang.
    “No!”  William shouted.  “What’re you doing?”
    “Com’on.  Come sit out here with me.”
    Frozen, Will could not understand her brazen attempt to be struck down.  He approached the window with the resolve to save her, but he was unable to speak or act. 
    Rebecca was standing out on the small ledge, conducting the lighting bolts to the ground like an orchestra leader.  Her eyes were closed, engaged in a symphony.  Will watched her body sway in the flashes.  Suddenly she stuck her head in the window and called once more to him.
    “Come here!  And bring my bag.” 
    Silently he obliged and handed it to her.  Eventually her eyes were able to convince him to breach the fourth wall, yet he remained cowering in the frame.  Her frustration rising, the smile fell from her face.
    “You’re 19 now Will!  It’s time you realized this is all nonsense.  There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
    Will felt an upsurge of indignation the likes of which he had never experienced before.  He couldn’t properly speak but only stutter.  As he felt his body swaying back and forth, he could only get out the first syllable.  “Non?!?…non!…non!…non!…non!…”
    She reached inside and grabbed him by the shoulders.  “Look at yourself!  If God created you in his image, wouldn’t he want you to be strong and courageous?!?  Or would he want you to be a stuttering fool?  You were created in him image, correct?”
    Will nodded.
    “Then Will, show him you’re strong,  show him you are willing to fight against what you fear the most!” 
    With that she took his hand and pulled him clear through.  She saw the terror on his face, and her smile returned. 
    “I’ve got a surprise for you.” 
    She knelt down, reached into her bag, and produced a block of 180 bottle rockets.
    “Before I lose you fully, I’m going to show you you have nothing to be afraid of.  We’re going to fight back with our own lightning.”
    Will suddenly came to.  “Rebecca, you’re going to try to upstage him?!?  Don’t you know what you’re doing?  This is sheer mockery.”
    “It’s freedom.”
    She took out an individual rocket, placed it on a brick and lit it, sending it soaring out into the storm.  William, unable to take his eyes off of it, watched as it disappeared with a flash and a just audible ‘pop.’  Frantically turning his eyes from the storm to her, he saw she was glowing.  He made the sign of the cross, closed his eyes, and waited.  Nothing happened.
    Her orchestra pit having transformed into a holy battlefield, she continued to light rocket after rocket, gleefully sending them flailing off into the darkness. The untamed strains of her laughter brought him back to reality.  Eventually he found himself bend down, lighter in hand.  POP - FLASH.  No wrath, no pillars of salt.  Excitement washed over him with the force of a wave, desirous to pull him out to sea.   They controlled the lighting, they controlled the thunder. 

And it was wonderful.

    The 18 hour bus ride up to the seminary turned out to be rather uneventful.  Other than the initial exchange of pleasantries, Will was wholly within himself.  Attempts to sleep proved fruitless.  He had no recognition of the gradual change in temperature until they reached a rest stop somewhere above the Mason-Dixon line, and he found himself stepping off of the bus and into a world of snow for the first time in his life. 
    His thoughts took many forms and shapes during the ride, but no matter how many turns they made, Will always found himself returning to his father, Rebecca, and the bottle rockets.  The twinge of liberating thoughts that had at first been exhilarating, when followed to their logical conclusion,  led him to doubts more terrifying than any storm that had ever been.  However, over all of this, his hope continually won out.   Here he was, on his way to join one of the greatest centers of devotion and learning that his faith had ever constructed.  Everything would become clear there.
    Will was quickly accepted into the new world, and easily fell into the rigid routine expected of all within the seminary.  For the first several months, Will was blindingly content, feeling closer to God than he ever had.  He continued to think of Rebecca on occasion, but here there were never any lightning storms.  The entire idea of them began to acquire more and more characteristics of a dream, an unreality.  Days passed rather comfortably. 


    The death of the Indian summer was in full effect.  It was the second  summer that Will had spent behind these holy walls, and among his chief duties these days was to serve as a teaching assistant to Father Bernadine, who gave talks at local schools.    The particular day lecture this day was to a class of forth graders. 
    Father began:
    “Good Morning children.  Today I would like to talk to you about unforgivable sin.  I know you all are familiar with normal sin, but this is a little different.  Now, how many of you have been to confession?”
    Everyone raised their hands, some eagerly, some reluctantly.  Father smiled - at least no one had lied to him yet. 
    “Very good!  So you know that by confessing your sins to the priest and doing the prescribed penance, you will be absolved of your sins.”
    A number of children nodded, some appearing rather proud, some already lost, but with the ability to still raise their hands at a moments notice.
    “This is absolutely true.  God is indeed forgiving.” More smiles were raised among the children as Father paused, preparing to deliver the keynote of this address. 
    “However,” he built himself up to his full 5 foot 8 inch stature, “there is one unforgivable sin.  One sin that, no matter what you do, God will never, ever forgive you.”
    The words violently struck Will, sending him back to the tender age of five, sitting on his Father’s lap.  Likewise, the children in the classroom also sat up straighter, smiles turning to expressions of concern.
    “To deny the Holy Spirit, to deny the existence of the Holy Spirit, this is unforgivable.  This is an atrocity, and once committed, cannot be undone.  It is the quickest route the devil takes to get his claws into you.  Please open your Bibles to Mark chapter 3, verse 28.  Now, who would like to read?”
    The normal childhood reluctance to read aloud, having been compounded with the addition of words which spelled out the recipe for damnation, lead even the most cocksure to clam up.   Surveying the room, Bernadine chose a girl in the far back right, as her concern appeared the greatest.  Once singled out, it quickly turned to dread.
    In a choking, shaking voice she read:

    Verily I say unto you, All sins shall be forgiven unto the sons of men, and blasphemies wherewith soever they shall blaspheme:
    But he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation.
    Because they said, He hath an unclean spirit.
    
    Will heard the words the girl spoke, but he was no longer there.  For the first time since stepping off the bus, that night returned with a fury; the lighting storm becoming fact once again.  His actions, Becky’s actions, were they not tantamount to denying His existence?  Certainly it was in the least blasphemous.  And if he denied God, even if only for that fleeting moment, didn’t that mean he denied the Holy Spirit as well?
    William’s thoughts began to swirl, transforming into colors, flashes, as beads of perspiration ran down his forehead.  With the rush and inability to breathe that comes from being uncontrollably thrown into a body of water, the heat surrounded him.  The tortured screams from his father’s bedtime stories rose once again. Reaching a crescendo,  they suddenly died,  and all he heard was the crack of thunder.  Bernadine appeared to grow larger and larger before his eyes, a glow emerging all around him as the children shrunk into their desks.  Will sprang from his seat and ran from the classroom.

    Unable to discuss what had happened with Father Bernadine, and unsure of what just exactly had happened himself, Will spent the next two days in sickbed.  On the third day he resumed his duties, but never again was he able to find solace in the comfort of a routine.  He found himself volunteering for every odd job that came up, taking on an especially prominent role the nights that the seminary opened their large stone doors to the city’s homeless.
    These people were the most unabashedly candid sinners he had ever come across.  They were also the most fascinating people he had ever met.  With the exception of Rebecca. 
    He would stay up late into the night hearing extraordinary tales the likes of which he couldn’t dream up for as long as he lived.  Some of these guests were violent, but most were peaceful, asking for nothing, happy to enjoy a safe shelter for the night. 

    With each night that descended upon him, Will found the initial peace of mind he had found in this  sanctuary giving way to ever increasing, and ever deepening doubts.  If his faith could not be solidified here, in the absence of secular thought, what promise did that hold for his future? 


    Will had come to hate the hallways, the ancient lights overhead cast harsh shadows upon the cracked stone floors.  Despite this, it was more often than not that any moment of free time he had was spent rambling through them.  Tonight was no different.  However, as he came to the kitchen he stopped at the sight of O’Brien, who was hard at work scouring the dishes from the evening meal.  O’Brien and Will were roughly the same physical age but spiritually Will always felt like a child in his presence.
    Will enter the kitchen.  “Good evening, may I be of any assistance?”
    “Hello William.  Thanks but I’m fine.  I enjoy it.”
    Will watched the intensity of O’Brien’s hands as he worked the bottlebrush in the soapy water. Their meals were always simple, and yet the he acted as if each item were covered in layers of burned grease. 
    Will stood silently watching, transfixed.  O’Brien felt his gaze. “Perhaps, William, there’s something I can do for you?”
    Will searched for the right words; he always worried that the others looked down upon him as simple. 
    “ Do you ever have doubts that what you are doing is right?”
    “Ah, I see.  We all have our doubts from time to time.  But ever since I offered my life up to Him, He has shown me the way.”
    “Look, I don’t want the rehearsal for the confessional, I don’t know what to do.”
    “Will, no matter how contrived you may think it, it isn’t a lie.  I mean every word that I say.  Doubts are normal, but if you trust in Him, really trust in Him, He will show you the way.  It is clear that you have major spiritual obstacles to overcome.  Since you arrived here I have seen you float between faith and disbelief seemingly at a whim.  The only advice I can give you is to look within yourself and seek His guidance - and if that doesn’t sound contrived I don’t know what does.”
    O’Brien was right.  Will accepted his words, knowing them to be true.  Suddenly the fear and shame surrounding him closed in from all sides.  He immediately went from longing for the blind faith of his youth to utter desperation, knowing that it was unattainable.
    Composing himself, Will smiled at O’Brien.
    “Well then… 25 Hail Mary’s and an Our Father?”
    “Couldn’t hurt.”

    Cloistered within the four simple, sterile walls of his room, Will sat on his bed, peering at the crucifix opposite him.  After several aborted attempts at prayer, he found his fingers fumbling with beads and heard his voice reciting, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”
    As he passed through the Sorrowful Mysteries, his eyes descended the wall and ultimately fell on the framed picture of his family on the nightstand.  Taking the frame up with his right hand, Will made eye contact with his father and laid it face down on the bed.  Where it had stood now revealed a small wooden stick dyed red.  Will had found it the morning he left for the seminary, the only physical proof of the battle which ensued the night before.  Spinning it between his thumb and forefinger, he finished, “now and at the hour of our death.  Amen.” He carefully placed the stick back into the thin valley of dust on the nightstand, replaced the picture on top of it, and turned out the lights.

    His dreams came in incomprehensible flashes of vivid imagery, including people he knew but had never met, along with several random series of numbers. The one constant throughout these vignettes was a blonde girl wearing a red jacket that had indecipherable writing on it.
    Each time he awoke he continued to see these images clearly, but only for a minute.  The feelings they invoked, however, remained pure and overwhelming.
    Finally, unable to find any comfort whatsoever in sleep, William arose, put on his robe and sandals, and made his way to the chapel, his body trembling.

    Despite the centuries of tradition and symbolism, the only sound to be heard in the chapel was an errant cricket. (or maybe it was a locust…)  The only light was a faint glow from a distant streetlamp.  It illuminated a stained-glass window depicting the first station of the cross.  With a drop of holy water running down his forehead, William lit three candles before the altar and kneeled in the first pew.  He had never been in the chapel when it laid wholly dormant.  The lack of fresh incense burning gave the air a musty, thick taste.  Like stale candy, he thought.
    The rush of trite air to his lungs, coupled with the corpus hovering over him, served to still his own body and momentarily caused him to feel an affinity with the relics of the room.  The residual emotions from his dreams washed over him.
    Raising his head, Will looked at the wooden figure of the body sagging under its own dead weight, and made the sign of the cross.  Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and exhaled the words “I deny the Holy Spirit.”
    Will felt the floor begin to crack beneath him and was covered in sweat from the intense heat.  Screams of eternal pain rose through the centuries and licked at his heels as three sharp points dug into his back…
    With an audible gasp he opened his eyes.  Nothing had happened.
    Standing up he felt his chest, his legs, his heartbeat.  Suddenly, with a fury unknown to him, Will rushed to the front door of the seminary, hoping with every fiber of his being to be met with a raging, all-encompassing lightning storm.  Yet, instead, all he found was a cool breeze.  The stars remained fixed in the heavens and his feet rested firmly upon the earth.
    Within an hour he was on a bus heading south.  And so it was that he came to sit once again under the old oak tree.


    Awakening in his bedroom a second day brought Will comfort of the kind that never actually existed, but always seems to rise when one looks nostalgically upon the past.  It was no less effective evidence that, despite the ravages of adolescence, childhood retains its ability to call a grown man home, offering some promise of bliss.
    The rest of the day and whole of the next consisted of a series of incidents with his family - thwarting his father, feeling sorry for his mother and playing with his sister.  That night Rebecca joined them for dinner.  Her transformation during his absence was physically evident.  Dinner had a few contentious moments, but for the most part it went smoothly.
    Mrs. Temple did her best to rekindled their friendship -- their friendship when they were nine.  She proceeded to produce a series of board games they all used to play a decade ago, reproducing an amiable game night that never existed either.  Nevertheless, Will felt an odd contentment and enjoyed himself.  He was sorry to see Rebecca go at the end of the night, watching her until her home swallowed her up. An hour later the storms began.  It was his first in two years, yet despite the fact that the great bulk of his life had been spent in fear of them, he was able to sit in the dark and simply listen.
    
    Will had been drifting in and out of the state between sleep and awake when he heard the ladder and saw Becky climbing through his window.  The storm continued on unabated as he slowly regained consciousness.  Exchanging smiles, no audible words were spoken,  none were necessary.  The heat of the lightning enveloped the entire room, the thunder ringing throughout.  For the second time in a week Will found his entire body set to trembling.  Perspiration was hidden by the rain, clumsy movements lost in the darkness.  The storm slowly receded outside his windows.  Hours later he woke to find her gone, the bright morning sun already elevating temperatures well above 70°.

    That morning, over another deluge of a breakfast, Will told his father of his plans.
    “The number 12 bus leaves today at 1:30... If you consent to drive me to the station, I think I’m ready to go back.”
    Everyone stopped eating and all eyes fell upon Mr. Temple, awaiting his reaction in order to correspondingly base theirs.  Will watched as his father allowed his fork to absentmindedly fall to his plate.  He was suddenly in rare proud form, allowing a smile to grow on his lips, followed by a bellowing laugh.
    “Well…” the old man began, clearing his throat. “I’m very glad to see you’ve made the right decision.  He respects that you know.  We all have our doubts now and again.  But the pure… the pure shall return to lead.”
    William winced.


    The number 12 sat nestled among the seemingly endless row of its utilitarian brothers and sisters, undergoing its last-minute checks, as its passengers did the same.  A large woman in a bright blue shirt fumbled to stow her baggage in the rack above, imploringly asking her child to be quiet.  Across from her, in flagrant disregard for the numerous posted signs, a man sat eating a chicken sandwich and working his way through a 32 ounce soda.
    The driver, a man who appeared to have been doing this route before any of his passengers had been born, settled comfortably into his routine, the many necessary precautions having become second nature to him long ago.  He paid no attention to the man who boarded, caring only a large, red plastic container.  Although the man appeared to be around 30, he looked as if he simply hadn’t existed between the ages of 13 and 29.  He had the soft eyes of a shepherd and rough hands of a laborer. 
    Glancing around the crowded bus, the man noted one empty seat about three quarters of the way back on the left-hand side.  As he proceeded towards it, the engine started and the door closed. The man stopped next to the empty seat and pulled what looked like a small metal microphone from his pocket.  Dipping this into the container, he methodically began splashing the seated on all sides.  Those who bothered to look up had the feeling they knew the man, those who didn’t were at least able to recognize the smell of gasoline.
    Suddenly, shrieks and cries began to go up, as he looked at each individual at the same time.  Striking a match he said, “You are forgiven.”


    The early evening air was still -- there would be another storm tonight.  A disembodied voice rose up from the dusk.
    “Hey, where’s the bag?”
    “Don’t worry, I’ve got it right here.”
    Rebecca produced a book of matches from her pocket and handed them to Will.
    “Here, why don’t you light the first one this time?”
    Will smiled, drew her close to him, and kissed her.  A crack of thunder could be heard in the distance.