JH Williams Roth VIII.
—Thomas Banyon.
—It’s Luther.
—Hello, brother.
—I was wondering …
A long pause. Thomas liked making him wait.
—He’ll be there at the usual time, Luther.
—Thank you.
Luther hung up. Thomas smiled to himself. Wasn’t providing what people wanted all the power you ever really needed?
The scented smoke whorled around Jarvis Kingham’s bearded face and on up into the shafts of light fingering through the corrugated skylight. Other than the row of candles marking the entrance to the sanctuary across from Jarvis’ pulpit, the skylight was the only source of illumination. It wasn’t much. Jarvis’ nose was filled by incense, plain old candle smoke, and a spectacularly effusive cloud of sweat emanating from his parishioners. Didn’t any of these people use antiperspirant?
Be nice, Jarvis, he thought.
He coughed and tried to stifle a second by clearing his throat. Despite his years of training, despite his strongly felt and sincere devoutness, despite his recognition of its place as the holiest of holy days in the Bondulay religion, Jarvis had never really cared for the Collingham Sacraments. The service was, frankly, the dreariest of the entire Bondulay sacred calendar: a dark room filled with candles on a hot summer day with pew upon pew of worshippers overdressed in their too-hot church finest sweating up a storm. What fun. Jarvis shifted his shoulders a little under his thick, wool robe. Droplets gathered to form rivulets of sweat cascading from his armpits and ample stomach. His eyes stung from the salt, and his fingers left wet prints on the pages of the Sacraments. Water, he thought, even as his lips sounded out the canticle.
—And, lo, the man who would be penitent before the Almighty shall have his transgressions rescinded without question;
—And, lo, the woman who would be penitent before the Almighty shall have her past wrongs erased without recompense.
Jarvis made a quick pass with his tongue to catch the drops of sweat dangling precariously from his mustache.
—But the penitence does not end at the expunging of past faults;
—The true penitent carries on in a never-ending quest to keep their past lies from being spoken again;
—To keep their past wrongs from being committed again;
—To keep their past thievings from being stolen again;
A verb-subject problem that seemed to have arisen in the translation.
—To keep their past grievances from being redressed;
—So say the Sacraments.
The congregation answered, a little wistfully in the heat, —And so say we all.
At least you get to sit down, Jarvis thought, then pushed the thought immediately away. The Collingham would have been slightly more tolerable if it weren’t also so long. Jarvis had been speaking for almost an hour and had only gotten through four canticles. There were seven to go. He shifted his feet and noticed that a quite literal puddle of sweat had formed between his sandals. Oh, Heavens above, he thought, enough is enough.
—Good people, I think, perhaps, in deference to today’s rather …
And here he paused to give both weight to the word and to signal a reluctance to make his request, a reluctance he no more felt than he did current personal comfort.
—… astonishing heat, I am wondering, perhaps, if it might not be prudent to move directly to the canticles of blessing.
He was surprised to hear some mumbling among the parishioners.
—And grant ourselves some comfort on this day of atonement.
The murmuring grew into outright conversation, and so quickly, too. Jarvis couldn’t quite believe his ears, but he was hearing protests. As achingly somnolent as they were, did they actually want to go through seven more canticles? A lone but distinctive voice rose over the murmurs. Jarvis only just halted a cringe. Theophilus Velingtham stood in the sweltering darkness to speak. Theophilus had been Head Deacon forever, at least since long before Jarvis, and spent most of his time as a one-man performance review committee.
—Father, I, and I believe the rest of the congregation, would find it difficult to countenance your request.
—I beg your pardon?
Even given Theophilus’ penchant for self-righteous droning, the man couldn’t seriously be suggesting two more hours.
—The Collingham Sacraments are our highest holiday, Pastor. What does a little discomfort mean to the true penitent?
More murmurs, this time of assent.
—How can a little overheating, and I’ll grant you, it is rather warm in here—
There was some appreciative chuckling. Theophilus wore a smile that Jarvis could see even in the dimness of the sanctuary. He tried hard not to also read malevolence there.
—I was only thinking of the extremity of the discomfort, Deacon Velingtham. Surely, the Collingham was not meant as an exercise in suffering.
—Surely what better situation could there be for the transgressor to reflect upon the gracious penitence of the Sacraments than to receive those Sacraments in a session of extreme discomfort?
There were calls of ‘hear, hear’ and ‘amen’ from the crowd now.
—It must be forty degrees in here, Deacon, maybe forty-five. I’m thinking of the safety issues—
—I, for one, am willing to risk it for the precious absolution that the Collingham offers.
Now there were outright calls of agreement.
—Continue on!
—The entire Collingham!
—Praise be to the Sacraments!
Theophilus’ voice again, splitting the room like a cleaver.
—I think of Sarah the Downhearted in the desert, walking mile after mile to gather the cactus leaves necessary for her—
—Yes, Deacon, we are all familiar with the parable.
—I was merely—
—Do you all really wish to proceed?
If he was going to have to do all eleven canticles then he might as well get on with them without having to listen to Theophilus blabber
