"'AND THE LIGHT SHINETH IN DARKNESS,'" read Father

Baptist from the stained and tattered Bible in his lap as I

rounded the patch of gardenias bobbing around the feet of

the statue of St. Joseph. A gust of hot, humid air fluttered the

edges of the page under Father's hand. "'And,'" he concluded

ominously, rolling the covers of the flimsy book

closed against the wind, "'the darkness did not comprehend

it.'"

It was late in the afternoon, and the sky looked gloomy and

threatening. He was seated on the wooden bench in the garden

between the church and the rectory, the hem of his

threadbare cassock flapping in the sultry breeze. Beside him,

at the respectable distance of an arm's length and a half, sat a

woman in her early twenties in a sky-blue dress. Her long

walnut-brown hair, gathered in back with a lichen-green scarf,

puffed and fluttered as gusts of humid air surged by.

"In this sentence," said Father, hefting the book in both

hands as if it contained the weight of the world, "is distilled

the crux of our situation. The Truth has presented itself. Indeed,

it has intruded into history and is burning fiercely like a

beacon from shore during a ferocious storm, seeking to penetrate

the gloom of our bad will."

The limbs of the overhanging oak tree heaved and creaked,

their leaves rattling and scraping portentously at his grim explanation

of the human predicament. The statue of St.

Therese the Little Flower on its stone pedestal, which faced the

bench on which priest and catechumen sat, seemed to nod a

grave but resigned approval of Father's perilous assessment.

2 THE DARKNESS DID NOT

"The question is," said Father, "will we choose to wallow in

the oblivion of darkness, or will we strive toward that beacon,

no matter the difficulty, no matter the cost? This is the question

each of us must answer, not just as an intellectual exercise

or philosophical conjecture, but as a necessary step toward the

saving of our souls and the determination of how we will

spend Eternity."

"Hmmm," she said, rubbing her arms. "Goose bumps

again, Father."

"Yes," he nodded, tucking the volume into the mysterious

folds of his cassock, "it is riveting, isn't it?"

"'Tantalizing' would be my word," she smiled.

"'Frightening' would be mine," I grinned as I lurched and

lumbered toward them, keeping my erratic balance with the

help of my cane. Well, I hope it was a grin. Considering the

jolts of pain that shoot to my brain with every step I take,

sometimes my smiles do not convey much in the way of kindliness.

"Frightening?" she laughed, looking up at me in surprise.

"As in 'terrifying,'" I assured her.

At that moment Millie banged some pots and pans in the

rectory kitchen, dotting my i's and crossing my t with a

housekeeper's vengeance. Even when beyond earshot, she

had an uncanny instinct for timely culinary punctuation.

Framed in the kitchen window, dear Millie looked a little like a

guard in a prison tower. I acknowledged Millie's watchful

presence with a friendly wave of my cane, to which she replied

with a fierce swing of her wrought-iron skillet.

GARDENING TIPS : Be advised that Millie's proximity

was a product of Father's design, not her idle curiosity.

To avoid any opportunity for scandal,

prudence required that Father Baptist never counsel

a member of the feminine sex without Millie

"present but out of earshot."

This arrangement bothered some of the parish ladies

no end. If, say, Mrs. Regina Tradosaurus

came to visit him in his study, she inevitably

found the door propped wide open with Millie noisily

vacuuming the clean throw-rug half-way down

the hallway. If Mrs. T suggested coffee in the

kitchen, Millie would snatch up her clipboard and

station herself in the pantry taking detailed inventory

of the bare shelves, or busy herself sorting

non-existent linens in the adjacent laundry

room.

The same watchfulness, of course, applied to

this seemingly secluded wooden bench in the garden.

Millie was nigh and noisily so. It was perhaps

the only house rule for which Father allowed

no exception.

Lest my reader become indignant, consider the

way your eyebrow twitched when Father's charming

guest started rubbing her goose bumps. 'Nuff

said.

--M.F.

N.B.: Incidentally, modern realities also required

the presence of myself in the next room or Mr.

Folkstone clipping the hedge under the study window

whenever an adolescent male came seeking Father's

advice. When it comes to potential scand

dal, we practice equal-opportunity vigilance here

at St. Philomena's.

"Oh, there you are, Martin," said Father, a spark of that

Light he had just been talking about flickering across his eyes.

"You know Stella Billowack."

"Very well," I said, clunking to a standstill. Planting the

rubber tip of my cane ceremoniously between the toes of my

shoes on the mossy brick path, I rested my palms on its handcarved

wooden handle. Something in my neck cracked as I

nodded in her direction. "So you've come back again," I

said approvingly, "for more."

"Why, Mr. Feeney," she giggled, "nothing could keep me

away. God, Reality, Truth-it's all so fascinating. I've never

heard anyone explain things the way Father Baptist does, not

even Pastor McIntosh."

I bristled at the mention of her family's Methodist mentor,

and I didn't even know him then as well as I would by the end

of this tale.

"Oh dear," she said, eyes sweeping down and up my cane,

as if seeing it for the first time. "Is the change in weather aggravating

your rheumatism?"

"Arthritis," I corrected her, looking up at the churning

purple-gray clouds that had been rolling in from the northwest

throughout the afternoon, "is not a fair-weather friend."

The day had begun with a beautiful orange sunrise. By the

time Father finished morning Mass the sky had blossomed

into a satisfying ultramarine blue, crystalline and clear as only

Southern California can define autumn. A gentle easterly

breeze had begun drifting lazily from the inland deserts toward

the Pacific Ocean. I remember commenting on God's

simple blessings as Father and I followed our nostrils across

the garden toward Millie's buttermilk pancakes.

But things began to change just before noon. A blast of

warm, humid air had come rolling unexpectedly out of the

northwest, slopping over the mountains and inundating the

City of Angels. Then thin glutinous clouds began invading

the upper atmosphere, stretched into long gooey strands by

ghostly high-altitude updrafts. They had a strange scarlet

fluorescence to them, and were soon joined by lower, thicker,

darker cousins.

Over lunch I had quoted the sixteenth chapter of St. Matthew's

Gospel: "'Today there will be a storm, for the sky is

red and lowering.'"

Father responded with the next verse: "'You know then how

to discern the face of the sky: and can you not know the signs

of the times?'"

By two o'clock the sky had become cluttered with overlapping

thorns of dreary violet vapor, and the tepid wind more

insistent, intrusive, and unpleasantly moist. At around five

o'clock the Angel who guards the troposphere hung out the

PARKING LOT FULL sign and went home. Now thunder rumbled

menacingly in the firmament. But in spite of all this

meteorological drama, a single drop of rain had yet to fall.

"I wouldn't consider arthritis a friend at all," grimaced

Stella Billowack.

"He's a faithful companion," I countered, "and a constant

comforter in any weather."

"You're joking aren't you?" She turned to Father. "Isn't

he?"

"Hmm," said Father, looking up at me with those unnerving

eyes that seemed to whisper, elementary yet profoundly,

"Considering that we are each called to take up our Cross and

follow Christ on His way to Calvary, and that in so doing we

procure a chance of attaining Heaven, what better name to apply

to our burden than 'friend'?" But all he actually said

was, "Don't be too sure, Stella."

"Sure," she said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

For her it was an affable rather than a disdainful gesture.

"Sure."

As if to remind me just how faithful-and watchful-he was,

my companion and comforter chose that moment to sink his

perpetually friendly teeth into my spine and shake his pointed

little head with furious but playful, tail-wagging abandon.

"HrmPHRHrhrm," I grunted, lowering myself onto the

edge of the cement birdbath, taking care not to bump the

rigid, porous bird perched precariously on its pockmarked

rim. It had been broken off years ago and never properly

repaired. At the slightest provocation it would topple into the

ivy with an unceremonious plop. I was in no mood to go

groping through the undergrowth on my knees in search of

that troublesome bird.

"That's a beautiful walking stick, Mr. Feeney," commented

Stella. "Most unusual."

"A gift," I said, hefting the aspen pole in my right hand

and casually rolling it in my fingers until the dragon's head

handle was snarling menacingly in her direction. "An example

of amiable overkill on the part of a group of companions.

There's a dagger inside, a concealed blade for self-defense or

letter-opening or something."

"Ooh, do show me."

"Gladly," I said, holding it out for her closer inspection,

"except I can't figure out how to release the catch."

"Don't ask me," she giggled, looking my dragon in the

eyes and drawing her own face into a playful snarl.

"Is it time?" asked Father, checking his old-fashioned

wind-up wristwatch with the cracked lens and twisted minute

hand. The poor timepiece had been severely battered four

months previously during a tumble off of a speakers' platform

at a dedication ceremony. "Hm. Six-thirty."

"They're ready," I said, remembering my mission, "and

waiting."

"We'll have to call it a night, Stella," said Father, rising to

his feet. "I have a serious matter to attend to. Martin, you'd

better fetch the monsignor. He'll want to be present."

"Will do," I said, hefting myself back up to a standing position

with the aid of my overkill cane. My balance painfully

achieved, I gave Miss Billowack what I hoped was a smile of

encouragement. "It really is good to see you, and I applaud

your perseverance and perspicacity."

"What's to persevere?" she laughed, gathering up her purse

and a couple of mangled books from Father's shelves. "I've

never felt so, so . delightfully curious. As for 'perspicacity,'

I don't know what that means."

"You'll learn," I said as I turned and began lumbering

away.

"I'll meet you inside, Martin," called Father.

"Can we continue this soon?" I heard her ask.

"Of course," said Father.

"Maybe Thursday?"

"I think so," said Father absently. "Call me in the morning

and we'll set up a time."

"I'll be devouring Belloc all night," she said cheerfully.

"And I'll save St. Alphonsus for breakfast."

He said something else, but I was already too far away to

hear it.