“Let us go forth, the teller of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart longs for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.”
~ W. B. Yeats
SECTION I
THE SHRINE
Mariana’s head snapped up.
She had been sound asleep, dreaming of water. A fire hydrant was spraying her and all the kids on her block, turning the blistering street into a riot of puddles.
She was six years old, before the seizures started, before the headaches and blackouts and all the rest of the crazy shit. She was dancing and splashing in her bare feet, brown like the rest of her from the August sun. Her friends called her “Nut” because she got so dark during the summer. Everyone on the block thought she was pretty then. Pretty and normal and likely to marry a nice boy from the neighborhood.
The first seizure hit when she was in second grade, right in the middle of catechism class. Sister Consuela had just read “God made us like himself. This is an important gift from God” from the catechism book. Her heart started to race. She smelled the scent of the trees her better-off neighbors put in their living rooms at Christmas time.
But, there were no fir or spruce trees anywhere near the school, and the windows were closed. She lifted her hand to ask to go to the lavatory. Everything went dark and silent.
When she opened her eyes, her head was pounding. She was on the floor. Everyone was looking at her. Sister Consuela leaned down close to her and whispered, “You had some kind of fit, Mariana. If you can get up, you need to go to the bathroom. You’ve wet yourself.”
That was the first time she heard kids laugh at her. “Nut” quickly became “Nut Job” and later, “Mad Mariana.”
She never knew exactly what was wrong with her. Her neighbors blamed it on lead paint in their 3rd floor apartment, rat poop in their basement, and a roof that dripped God knew what when it rained. Her Mamina blamed it on the bad blood of that son of a bitch who fathered her and then took off. And her Mama, who worked two jobs just to squeeze into the ranks of the working poor, had marginal health insurance with a sky-high deductible. An MRI and CAT scan out of reach.
Maybe it was because of the trauma of the first seizure, but the words spoken by Sister Consuela in that long ago catechism class, “God made us like himself. This is an important gift from God” became Mariana’s adult mantra. When she was denied a driver’s license because of her seizures, and a decent job because of her health record, and forget about the nice boy from the neighborhood, she’d say to herself in her head, “God made us like himself. This is an important gift from God.”
By the time she was
25 and barely surviving on welfare, she’d taken to saying her mantra, and all of the rest of her thoughts, out loud.
That was when she discovered the Shrine of Saint John Neumann in St. Peter the Apostle Church on North 5th Street, several miles from her Mama’s apartment. A SEPTA driver put her off the Route 15 Girard Avenue trolley. He said she was causing a disturbance. Didn’t he understand when her head hurt very badly, she had to talk louder so she could hear her own thoughts?
It was cold and raining and too far to walk home. She didn’t know this section of the city, and she had no money in her pockets. She tried not to cry, but she was so damn frustrated and angry. She’d never done anything wrong. Why did everyone look away from her, or nudge each other when they saw her? Why did her heart race and she smell Christmas trees when it wasn’t even Christ’s birthday? And why, when she found herself lying on the sidewalk, did people just step over her?
“God made us like himself,” she struggled to say, but her tears and the rain choked off the rest of her words.
“And you are an important gift from God,” a voice said. “That’s what our catechism should teach.”
Mariana looked for the voice.
A priest was standing near a black wrought iron fence just by her. She hadn’t seen him. She looked up into the rain. A stone church with a high bell tower stretched almost all the way down the block.
“Saint Peter the Apostle,” he said. “My church and parish. Also, Saint John Neumann’s Shrine.”
His hands were full of boxes. They were getting soaked.
“I just picked up candles for the shrine,” he said. “It’s in the lower level of the church. I could use some help with the door to get in there, if you have a minute.”
Mariana stared at him. He wasn’t looking away from her, nor trying to hide a smirk, like so many did when they saw her.
“I’m Father Francisco Ibanez,” he said. “A Redemptorist priest. Most people call me Father Fran. The kids here at St. Peter’s School call me Cisco, behind my back. They think I don’t know it, but I don’t mind.”
Then he smiled at her.
That was how she got the job as Maintenance Supervisor at the National Shrine of Saint John Neumann. She was a department of one.
That was why she was sleeping in the last pew of the locked and deserted shrine, as she so often did, after it closed at 6 PM. Her Mama still worked two jobs, even though Mariana helped now with the rent and groceries. Her Mamina died when she was 19. It pained Mariana that her Mamina hadn’t been able to see her with a real job at a prestigious place like the shrine.
There was no place and no one to rush home to. Plus, she loved the quiet and serenity of the shrine itself.
Only, she was certain she heard something. A noise made her pop out of her wonderful dream of water and fun on that August day, so many years ago.
Someone or something was in the shrine with her.
Intruder
Mariana was afraid to breathe.
She knew all the shrine doors were locked. She’d locked them herself and checked them twice. Father Fran warned her that some of the churches and other places of worship in their section of the city had been targets for break-ins recently.
It was late August, with steam-bath nights and swarms of people out on the streets till late hours, trying to avoid sweltering apartments until absolutely necessary. Stolen chalices wouldn’t bring much, but altar candlesticks and crosses could fetch good money for someone needing to stoke a habit.
Plus, the Holy Father, Pope Francis, was coming to Philadelphia on September 26th and 27th for the World Meeting of Families Congress. They were all so excited. They didn’t know if he was going to visit the shrine. It wasn’t on his itinerary, but he was known for suddenly showing up at places unannounced. They did know thousands of families from all over the world would be in the city September 22nd through the 27th, and the National Shrine of St. John Neumann’s was prominently listed on their website.
All the parish priests and even the school children had been working hard to add even more shine to the large church above and the shrine church tucked below. The wall mosaics of St. Neumann to the left of the shrine altar and the Blessed Mother and Child to the right had been carefully cleaned. Each station of the cross on the side walls had been lovingly polished. The stained-glass windows, inside and out, had been wiped down with distilled water, and the wooden pews hand rubbed to a gorgeous luster. The main altar behind the smaller altar that held the body of St. Neumann was spotless, but they all knew hardly anyone ever saw it.
From the time everyone entered the shrine, all eyes were fixed on the body. A glass box framed with metal sat beneath a wooden frame that formed the altar. It wasn’t a large glass box. John Nepomucene Neumann was a short man, barely 5’4” tall. In the glass box, St. Neumann’s body was garbed in white laced vestments, episcopal gloves and a mitre. A wax mask covered his face, his eyes closed as though he was sleeping.
A fire struck the shrine in 2009, before Mariana started working there. It had been so hot it completely destroyed the pulpit. But remarkably, the intense heat had no effect on the body or wax mask, only a couple of feet away.
Mariana heard the noise again. Something was moving, whisper-quiet. It sounded like it was coming down the several steps to the left of the ramp entrance off the parking lot side of the building. Something so light Mariana wondered if a bird had found its way inside. It wouldn’t be the first time an enterprising pigeon found its way into the building, looking for a tasty treat. Rats with wings, her Mamina had called them. A pigeon would mean poop all over the place, and she was not going to let that happen.
She started to rise but stopped. The noise was more pronounced. What sounded like bird’s feet,
now sounded like the lightest footsteps. And they were moving toward the altar.
Her heart started to thump. Not the, “Oh Dear Christ, another blackout’s coming thump.” This was the angry yet scared thump of, “I’ll be damned if anyone is going to hurt my shrine.”
She carefully reached down for the cell phone in her pocket Father Fran gave her for ordering materials, contacting staff or calling the police, should there be an emergency. Her pocket was empty. The cell phone was in her carry bag in the shrine office.
She squinted, trying to see into the shadows. She could vaguely make out a shape. It was moving toward the altar. But, her eyes were playing tricks on her.
She could make out the outline of a person, a woman perhaps. Then the outline began to waver. Now she was peering at a bird, a very tall bird, with a hooked, dangerous-looking beak and large, dark brown eyes.
The shape of a woman wavered back. It was like she was looking at an image that wouldn’t stay still.
Mariana rubbed her eyes.
“I’m still dreaming,” she said in a hushed voice.
“No, you’re not, Darlin’,” said the shape.
Mariana’s entire body began to shake.
“God made us like himself,” she cried out, clutching the top of the pew with both hands.
“And you are an important gift from God,” said the shape.
Mariana’s breath caught in her throat.
“How could you know that?” she whispered. “Only Father Fran ever said that to me.”
“You see me,” said the shape. “You truly see me. You are an important gift from God, Mariana. Your Mamina knew it. Your Mama knows it. Father Fran knows it. It’s the ass-wipes in this stinkin’ city who’re stupid and stone blind.”
The shape stepped into the dim overhead light in the front of the altar. It cocked its head. The images of bird and woman came together. Mariana gasped.
A fierce-looking woman with great round eyes and long arms and legs covered in bluish-gray feathers was staring at her. Her nose was tapered and ended in a dark point. She looked powerful and graceful and lethal.
“My business here isn’t with you, Darlin’,” the woman said. “Come up to the front pew, now. I promise I’ll not hurt you, and I always keep my promises.”
Mariana felt her legs rise. Her feet started to take her up the center aisle.
“Who are you?” Mariana whispered.
She couldn’t stop trembling.
“What are you?”
“I’m one very pissed lady who trusted someone,” the woman said.
She turned and stepped up to the altar that held Neumann’s body.
Mariana was almost to the first pew. She began to be surrounded by the scent of Christmas.
“I’m going to pass out in a second!” she cried.
“No, you aren’t,” said the woman, her back still to her. “What you’re smellin’ isn’t the trigger for your mind storm. It’s comin’ from me, Darlin’. A touch and taste of my neighborhood, you might say. Now sit for a moment, won’t you? I need to speak with someone.”
Mariana found herself seated, stunned she hadn’t blacked out. She swiveled her head to try and find the “someone” in the shrine with them. Maybe they could get help. Maybe they could call 911.
The woman crouched down in front of the glass box and leaned in close. She cocked her head to the left and then the right. She stared intently at the wax mask covering St. Neumann’s face.
“John,” she said. “You gave me your word. After those pig-shit sons and agents of that Englishman, Penn, broke their promise to us and The True People, I swore never to believe any of you again. But I looked
into your heart, John, and I saw a carin’ man, an honest man. You promised the woodland would stay untouched, that the Church would honor your promise after we helped you.”
Her back grew straighter. The feathers on her arms and legs began to rise.
“Now your promise is broken. I warned you, John. I warned you all kinds of hurt would happen if you and the Church ever broke your word to us.”
She jerked up her right foot. It was no longer human.
It was yellow. Three long, curved toes with a short one in the back. Vicious-looking, black talons extended from each toe.
“Damn it all,” she screamed, “I fuckin’ warned you!”
Her foot shot forward.
It struck the glass with a boom. The box shook.
Her talons gouged the glass. The center one began to tear downward, scarring the polished surface. There was an unholy screeching. It was as if the box’s heart was being ripped out.
The head of Saint John Neumann spun toward the woman. The eyes in the wax mask blinked.
Mariana cried out. All went dark. ...
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