An Introduction - OC and Nightcrawler (Catholic Superheroes)
Sister Mary had more than enough words for the young priest when he entered the rectory to find it one occupant short.
“What did I say, Father Bartholomew?” She always used his full name when he was in trouble. “What did I say about that boy…if he even is that? I said not to leave him, and here he is, gone without a trace!”
As Sister Mary continued to lecture, Fr. Barry took the time to place the plastic bags of groceries onto the countertop, trying not to rustle them too loudly over the sound of Sister’s complaints. Then he removed his glasses and began polishing them in a methodical, circular motion against a fold of his cassock. Sister Mary carried on for another moment without pause for breath; long enough for Fr. Barry to replace his glasses and step back into the conversation.
“Are you sure he’s gone?”
Sister jolted to a halt, not quite expecting the interruption. Then she crossed her arms and jerked her head towards the guest room.
“It’s empty, Father. We’ve checked from top to bottom, even under the bed and in the closet. He’s nowhere near the rectory, either.”
“He’s in no fit condition to be moving about!” Fr. Barry retorted, as if that fact alone would be enough to deliver their patient back into his bed.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” rejoined Sister Mary. She might’ve delivered another harsh statement, but one look at Fr. Barry’s tense posture and wild eyes told her that she had done enough scolding. With a sigh, she let her arms fall to her sides.
“Father, he’s disappeared. We don’t know where he went. I even sent Sister Theotokos to check the Church, but she didn’t find anything.”
Fr. Barry crossed the floor to the rectory door, but paused to turn back. “Everywhere in the Church?” he asked.
“I think so,” Sister nodded. Fr. Barry pondered this statement, then slammed the door. His footsteps faded as he set off in the direction of the Church.
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At this time of day, the Church was a chilly, quiet place. If it wasn’t for the ever-flickering flame of the Sanctuary Lamp, nor the knowledge of the Eternal Presence of Christ in the Eucharist, Fr. Barry might have seen the building as a place to be avoided. Now he unlocked the wooden doors and crept inside, closing them behind him as quietly as possible. Even with his attempts to mute all sound, the audible “click” of the shutting doors rang through the empty building, ringing off the high vaulted roof and losing itself in the shadows which the statues of saints and angels threw against the walls. He stepped down the middle aisle, his footsteps covered by the worn red carpeting under his shoes. Rows of pews, rich brown in color, pointed him towards the altar, which floated on an island of white stone. Above the altar itself hung a crucifix, upon which a bleeding Christ surveyed the empty pews with a half-lidded gaze. Fr. Barry stood before the figure, taking a moment to whisper a prayer to St. Anthony, whose patronage of Lost Things was invoked often for matters such as misplaced keys or glasses. Now it was for the skinny boy with blue skin and a tail.
“Watch over him…” Barry murmured, letting his gaze sweep the empty sanctuary, “Let him be-”
Some movement caught the priest’s eye, pulling him from prayer and to the framed portrait of Mary which hung to the right of the altar. The image itself was a glorious one; Mary was arrayed in splendid robes, surrounded by a halo of sunlight, with a golden crown atop her head. But her eyes were gentle and motherly, and her little painted smile was one which offered comfort. In her arms was the baby Jesus, who looked out with as much compassion as his mother. A few candles flickered before the image, but it was not the flames which attracted Fr. Barry’s attention.
The boy was at the kneeler; Barry knew him immediately by the tail, which twitched periodically, though he remained quite still otherwise.
“We didn’t know where you went,” Fr. Barry said, quietly. The tail jerked, tensed, then drooped. The boy lifted his head and fixed his eyes on Fr. Barry, who could see for the first time that they were a brilliant yellow, and seemed to glow in the dim lighting. He took in Fr. Barry from top to bottom, noting the cassock, the priest’s raised hands, and the gentle smile, before turning back to the painting. His hands were wrapped together. As Fr. Barry drew near, he could hear a soft murmur.
Could it be that this…boy…was praying?
“Do you mind…?” Without waiting for a response, Fr. Barry settled himself on the kneeler beside the boy. Again the yellow eyes tracked his movements. He seemed to be waiting, as a lizard might if a person passes too closely by it on the sidewalk, tense, ready to spring if someone spoke too loudly or moved without warning. As a general rule, Fr. Barry avoided doing these on a daily basis. So they knelt in a silence that wasn’t unfriendly, broken only by the boy’s labored breathing (a testament that he was not well, and certainly in no condition to be in the church much longer). Fr. Barry was finally tempted to engage in a conversation that was more than one-sided.
“Are you Catholic?” he asked. As the words left his mouth, it occurred to him that he didn’t know if the boy understood English. Based on appearance alone, one would think him an alien from a distant planet! Perhaps he spoke a dialect all his own. But the response he received dispelled those fears:
His voice was a husky stage-whisper, and his words were wrapped in a thick accent which Fr. Barry couldn’t place. Yet, they were English words, and it seemed that the priest and the boy had more in common than what appearances would suggest. Fr. Barry had to marvel, even if only a moment, in this realization. The blue skin…the devil’s tail…the animalistic fingers and toes…and yet they both bowed before the figure on the Cross over the altar.
Fr. Barry tentatively brought one hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder. He tensed; the tail twitched madly.
“I’m Fr. Barry,” the priest began softly, “I found you last night and brought you back to the rectory. I’m happy to keep you here as long as you need, until you’re well enough to go back…well…excuse me, but I’m not sure where you come from, or even your name, for that matter.”
He’d hoped to ease into a more amicable mood, to learn one or two things about their new guest, perhaps lay down the foundation for some trust and openness. However, based on the way the boy’s face twisted into a grimace, the hitch in his breath, and the way his tail lashed furiously to-and-fro, he had made a disastrous attempt. He might have apologized, and was opening his mouth to do so, when the boy beat him with a few broken words that plunged their exchange into abrupt silence:
“I don’t know it, either.”
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