In the Name of

Ghost of the Deep – Carlissa Nargassans

In the Name of

John Richter

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession.”

“Go ahead.”

“I have gravely sinned, Father. I fear that I shall not be forgiven for what I have done.”

“Why do you believe such a thing? God is merciful; we are his lambs, and he is the shepherd. You mustn’t be afraid of your mistakes; you must allow yourself to be healed and forgiven.”

“I killed one of his creatures, Father. He was just a boy.”

I remember that night as if it were yesterday; I sent Jacob out past the old oak fence and down the old dirt road to fetch firewood for the church furnace, as I swept the cold, cobblestone floors and tidied up for Sunday Mass. He had arrived a few days prior from my sister’s house to help me during the summer; he wanted to be a priest like me, and I was happy to teach him. It was wet that morning; drops of dew clung to the large, lacquered church doors and vines that, as though trying to shake the hand of God, had wound around the large stone pillars outside and summited the steeple. It brought a certain beauty to the church; the grey stone facade that stuck out so much from the surrounding greenery had darkened since its construction, and all manner of creatures now roamed the property and gardens. In the warmer seasons, ladybugs and lightning bugs could be found in the pews, and as I would snuff the candles in the evenings, the entire church would glow a radiant yellow. It rained the entire night prior, and we stayed awake, tucked away in a back room on our rickety cots, watching the midnight rain stick to the stained-glass panes, as we discussed philosophy and religion.

“Uncle,” he said, “why is it that God forgives the wicked? Not the average sinner, as you say, but the truly wicked man; he who refuses to bow to God and admit that he has done wrong, or he who does wrong and yet refuses to admit even the most basic fact of his wrongdoings. If God knows their path, then why allow them to continue on it if they will likely commit another mortal sin?”

The bed creaked as he leaned forward, sitting opposite me, as if every word spoken tightened the knot between our minds, reeling him closer to me in the process. He was a scrawny boy with brown hair and green eyes, and a limp that set him quite aloof at times, yet he had a mind as sharp as my own. I sat and thought for several minutes, and then answered: “Because He knows men can change. He doesn’t see only one path, Jacob, but all of them at once. The Possible is an immeasurable, incomprehensible puzzle from our view, and yet somehow he manages to calculate it all. Everything happens for a reason; he chooses the perfect moment for everything, and it is all part of his great plan for us. Have faith in Him and His actions, and all will fall into place.”

He had been gone around four hours when Mr. Adams, the town carpenter, pounded on the church doors. I had known him for many years; both Jacob and his boy were around the same age, born within a month; friends since their earliest years.

“Have you seen my son? He told me that he was going to meet Jacob after they finished their chores to play by the beach, but I haven’t seen or heard from either of them since early this morning.”

We both hurried out of the church and down the long dirt path, which had turned to mud because of the rain. Finally, after a brisk jog, we made it to the beach.

“Jacob!” I shouted. “Where are you?” I received no response, so the carpenter and I began to crawl the beach and the nearby cliffs, searching for any sign of either Jacob or his son. At last, the carpenter cried out. I knelt beside him as he picked up a piece of torn white fabric stuck between two rocks.

“Look! Look below! Somebody is lying down there!”

Peering over the edge, I saw a young boy in the same robe I helped Jacob put on this morning, lying face down in the sand; the rough water had turned red around him.

I paused before responding to what I just heard. It had been years since I lost Jacob, and even though the pain was dulled, it was still present. I could sense something else in his voice; it filled a void in the church, echoing off the walls, left empty for many years.

“Do you repent your actions?”

“Do you think I will be forgiven, Father?”

“If you truly regret your actions, then yes.”

“Because he knows men can change, or was I told wrong?”

“You are ri-“

I stopped myself; it was quite a strange comment to make, yes, but whoever it was behind the screen still could have a culpable reason for asking such a thing. And yet, there was no harm, right? I began to pull back the screen separating us, but he grabbed it and pulled it back into position.

“What are you doing, Father?”

“Please, my child, I mean no harm, just answer me this: why have you returned after all of these years?”

“As I told you, I hadn’t confessed in some time so-“

“That’s not what I mean, Jacob,” I interjected.

Ripping down the screen with fury, I finally saw the young man on the other side. He was the same: the same green eyes, the same brown hair, and the same gaunt appearance. He sat there in horror as I menaced above him.

“You killed the Adams boy, and you believe you can simply ask for my forgiveness? Do you understand how much your mother cried over you? She’s dead, Jacob, of a broken heart! You are no Godly priest as you once desired!”

“It was an accident, Uncle.”

“Then why did you run?” I shot back.

“I was afraid. He and I wanted to play church on the cliffs; use the rocks as pews and the bugs as worshippers, but he took my robe, and as I chased after him, I shoved him, and he slipped. I am no murderer, I simply made a mistake.”

“And do you think I wasn’t afraid when I saw you in town a few days ago? I believed I was seeing ghosts as you walked by, and I burned with rage like no man before, not because you extinguished a young flame, but your subversion of all things holy and your refusal to repent. Why did you run? You still have not answered me this! You knew it was wrong, you knew all of the pain you would cause, and yet you still did. That is a mortal sin, Jacob, just as I taught you to swear against. Leave this place, and do not come back until you are ready to repent for what you have truly done. After all, you are no average sinner, and one who fails to bear witness to his flaws is only doomed to repeat them.”

And with that, I got up and stormed out. For many days, he came to my door, knocking and begging for forgiveness, and I always remained too deep in prayer to acknowledge him. For what is God worth, I began to think, if he is but willing and able to allow one of his flock to stray so far. To run from Him as if He were the Devil, and to hide in the shadows, where only man can reach; I prayed that somehow, God may pluck at his heart strings like a harp and play a beautiful song, one that could penetrate his once-sharp mind, and bring him back to me. Never did I truly believe him, for he had been gone for too long, I thought, for anything to come of it. And yet, he persisted until finally, I was left with no choice but to offer him another chance at salvation.

So once again, I began:

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Go ahead.”

“I betrayed the church, and you, Father. I ran from my mistakes, knowing that it would cause more harm than good, and built walls around myself that only harmed my soul. I am responsible for the deaths of an innocent boy and my own mother; only God can save me now.”

“Thank you for confessing such acts under the eyes of God. Now, if you truly repent, please make an Act of Contrition.”

Jacob bowed his head, with his eyes closed.

“Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my sins because of Your just punishments, but most of all because they offend You, my God, who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”

A smile broke across his face as he finished, but I was not there to see it. My cloak lay strewn across the cobblestone, and the church doors were thrown open. As the rain began to stick to the stained-glass windows once again, he lifted his head just in time to see my silhouette vanish past the old oak fence and down the road. I walked for many miles, I saw many places, and yet it all meant nothing to me. Finally, I sat on a crumbling stone wall, facing great green fields and a blue sky, and I thought of pain, of mercy, and of the small, wise boy I had raised. To be honest, I don’t know why I ran; all I knew was that I was no longer a priest.

Many years later, a young boy ran, shivering, through the cold rain, finally collapsing at the church doors. A priest stepped out, old and shriveled, yet the rain seemed to bring a smile to his wrinkled face as he looked upwards; his brilliant green eyes sparkled as though he was fifty years his junior. The boy began to cough wildly, and so the priest invited him in.

“I’m afraid,” the boy whispered, trembling.

Thunder cracked overhead.

“So were we all, lamb. Please, come in.”

The doors slammed shut as the rain turned heavy.