by Joe Stanley
4
Maria reached the village and wondered her question again. How do I find Hector? As she remembered the Father’s answer she looked up to see a yard full of pottery and a sign that said “Hector.” She laughed and truly loved the Father, marveling at him despite herself.
She pulled the car to the yard and got out. A skinny man with a very large moustache stood from his place on the porch. “You must be Sister Maria.”
“Yes,” she said, “how did you know that?”
“I recognize the Father’s station wagon.” he answered, “and Father Pedro said you would be coming for the pot.”
“A pot?” she asked, “He sent me here for a pot?”
Hector ignored the irreverence with which she considered his labor, and said “Yes, a very special pot.”
He stepped inside the door to his home, returning almost immediately with a box. He handed it to her. Inside was straw. He brushed the top clear and removed a small, strange, jar-like vessel. It was shaped like a head with two faces. One side was painted mostly white and the other mostly black. Pictographs were painted above and below the faces.
“I am the only one who still knows how to make these,” said Hector, “though I don’t know the meaning of the symbols. I learned this from my grandfather and he took that knowledge with him when he died. I still remember, though…”
He was cut off by the sound of a woman’s scream from inside the house. As he and Maria rushed to the door a hysterical woman pleaded “come see, come see” between her sobs.
Inside, the television blared a special announcement. A reporter was on the scene of an explosion. Maria didn’t need to hear his words. She recognized the church, even though it was blasted to rubble. Wisps of smoke snaked into the sky. “…appear to be no survivors, a terrible tragedy.” finished the reporter.
Hector helped Maria to the couch where she, too, began to cry.
***
Esteban was finishing a fresh lobster when the news came to him. He smiled and lit a cigarette. He enjoyed the rest of his day.
In the search for survivors there were none found, but news of a discovery in the ruins reached him later. When the rubble was cleared away, the Father’s body was found. He was dead, but his body was intact, undamaged by the explosion. All others had been vaporized, blasted to bits or crushed. His was the only body to be found. It was taken to a makeshift chapel where people had already begun to come to see it. There were rumors that this would cause the church to consider Pedro for sainthood.
Esteban nearly exploded. It was bad enough that a popular priest had spoken out against the Cartel. If Pedro were given sainthood for this… Something had to be done and it had to be done quickly. He called his men and instructed them what he wanted. He detected their hesitation, although it was slight. He resolved to have them eliminated if they failed. When they were gone, he sat to begin the long wait for nightfall.
He fell asleep and had troubled dreams that he couldn‘t quite remember. When he was roused with news of their success, he commanded them to take it to his atrium. He wiped sweat from his forehead and lit a cigarette. He bathed and dressed in his most expensive suit for the reunion. He walked slowly when he was ready, enjoying the cool night air.
The atrium was illuminated by moonlight, giving everything inside a silver glow. The body was on an old hospital stretcher and had been placed in the center of the room. Dressed in white, Pedro seemed to be the brightest light in the darkness. For a moment, Esteban was afraid to go closer. He cursed himself for weakness and forced his feet forward.
Esteban finally reached the body, looking down quietly with what might be mistaken for reverence. The thoughts in his head finally spilled out to break the stillness, “I am truly sorry things have gone this way.” The silence returned, it was like a dagger thrusting between his words, which echoed back down from the high ceiling. “I wish you had taken my offer…” he began, inside him there was an ocean of anger and regret boiling and rolling. “Why is nothing ever simple?”
“I know that I have done wrong, but it means nothing. In life there is only the consequence, and the clever can avoid it. So many people let these notions deprive them, but I will not. For all the things I have done people would call me a monster, yet I am free and wealthy. I am above the law, I am untouchable. I live a life that is beyond even the dreams of most people…”
He leaned over the body, and said “If there is a God or not it does not matter. He does not speak to us, He does not help us or harm us. We can choose to do whatever we wish, and God does nothing. Where was God when the bomb went off? Why didn’t he help you or save the fools that come to listen to your nonsense? What good is a God that does nothing?”
Esteban noticed something tucked under Pedro’s arm. With a hand that almost trembled, he removed it. It was a small pot, black on one side, white on the other. He turned away from Pedro and took a few steps, trying to examine it in the moonlight. The white face seemed still, stoic and stern rather than peaceful. He began to feel ashamed for having touched it. He turned the pot over to see that the black face had open eyes that seemed alert.
Perhaps it was only the moonlight and the shadows dancing on the face, but the eyes began to move. They looked side to side then directly at him. When the lips began to move he threw the pot away from him. It hit the marble floor, shattering into countless pieces. He stood silently for a moment, his heart racing, trying to tell himself that it was only a trick of the light. He lit a cigarette.
He was not missed until late the next morning. He was found on the floor between the stretcher and the atrium wall. One of his lifeless hands clutched at his chest, the other clawed the marble floor behind him. His face was frozen in a horrible mask of terror, his eyes locked on the stretcher. Pedro’s body was gone, leaving only black and white shards of pottery behind.
-end-
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