"Yes, my son," Father Ramirez intoned in a voice meant to convey compassion and understanding to a man twice his age. "It is often that a man's calling finds him before he has even thought to go looking for it. It was the same with my calling to the priesthood." Father Ramirez winced. That had sounded pompous. He tried not to do that but sometimes he couldn't seem to help it. "What is it that you wish to confess?" he rushed to ask, trying to cover his embarrassment. There was a moment's hesitation from the other side of the window. "Come now, Antonio. You need not be afraid. God knows all."
The shadowy figure in the next booth seemed to consider this. "You are right, Father. It's just . . . I have been the gravedigger in this village for almost forty years. I have buried them all: the rich and the poor, the pious and the sinners, the young and the old."
Father Ramirez's brow creased, uncertain as to where this was going. "That is true. And you have performed your duties well. I have never heard anything but the highest praise for your dedication to your job."
Antonio seemed to draw strength from the compliment. His voice became firmer. "It is just that I was the last person to see them to their rest. After the mass was done, after the mourners and priest had gone, there was only me to see to their final needs. They trusted me to take care of them."
Father Ramirez began to become alarmed. This was starting to sound as if it were more than the usual telling of lies or cheating at cards. He'd heard stories in the seminary of the things that happen in these backward communities. His own vivid imagination began to conjure up unpleasant thoughts.
"It is always so quiet in the graveyard," Antonio continued, unaware of Father Ramirez's concerns, "so lonely. And not everyone dies an old man in his sleep. Some die suddenly, or too young. I would feel so badly for them that I felt it was my duty to offer them comfort -- so that they would not feel so alone."
Father Ramirez knew what he had to ask and steeled himself for the answer he might get. "And how exactly would you comfort the dead?"
"Why, I would sing to them," Antonio said quickly, as if sensing Father Ramirez's displeasure, "or tell them jokes, or talk to them."
Father Ramirez leaned back and almost laughed with relief. "Yes, well, I can easily understand you singing while you worked. That is not such a terrible thing. Is that what you wish to confess? That you sang in the graveyard? Were the songs . . . inappropriate?"
"No, Father," came the solemn response, "it was not the songs. It was . . . Well, sometimes, when I spoke to the dead. They spoke back."
Father Ramirez winced. It was worse than he'd thought. A man who heard voices because of an overactive imagination could be advised to take his work more seriously. A man who heard voices because he drank too much could be counseled on the importance of abstinence and prayer. But Antonio was neither a fool nor a drunk. Antonio was a somber man who took his responsibilities very seriously. A man like that, who heard voices, needed more than a priest.
"And what would the dead say to you?" Father Ramirez asked cautiously, needing more information upon which to act.
"Whatever it was they needed to say," Antonio answered. He seemed happy to get the words out. "Some only wanted to ask what had happened -- death having taken them by surprise. Others needed comforting. The very young and the very old were often the most frightened. Some," and here Antonio hesitated again, "asked for forgiveness."
Father Ramirez stared hard through the mesh screen at the figure beyond as a flush of anger swept over him. "They would ask you for forgiveness? That is most inappropriate. You are not a priest. It is a holy office --"
"Yes Father," Antonio rushed to continue, "but as I said, there was no one else to hear their words. You are the first priest to reside in our village in over thirty years. Father Montaņa would visit only twice a month and we often had to fend for ourselves when he could not come. And the dead cannot wait. I have often thought that being the gravedigger is almost like holding a holy office. So if the dead chose to speak to me, I could not ignore them."
Father Ramirez paused to regain his composure. He reminded himself that Antonio was claiming to having taken confessions from the dead. Now was not the time to argue the appropriateness of his actions. Now was the time to offer assistance to one who was reaching out to him. "I'm sorry," Father Ramirez began, "I did not mean to imply . . . I understand that you were left to fend for yourselves. But I am here now. And as the Priest of this community, it is my responsibility to offer God's forgiveness to those who seek it."
"Yes, Father," came Antonio's contrite response, "that is what I think as well."
Father Ramirez nodded to himself. Antonio was a good man. And good men act out of kindness and not out of ego. He needed to remember that. "And when the dead spoke to you," he continued, focusing on the issue at hand, "did you give them your forgiveness?"
"What else was I to do?" Antonio asked timidly. "They were in such need. The Widow Martinez told me that her husband drank too much and would beat her. The night they found him sprawled out in the alley, his head broken open on the pavement so that his blood flowed like water, she did not tell anyone that she'd found him there two hours earlier and had chosen to leave him to his fate. She did not kill her husband but neither did she save him." Father Ramirez frowned. He remembered the Widow Martinez. A stern old woman, she had been his very first funeral in the village. He never had the chance to get to know her.
"And the American, who lived over the cantina, and would drink all day," Antonio continued, "he told me of the wars in which he'd fought and of the things that men do in battle. He drank to forget. But in the grave there is no tequila. Trapped with his memories, he had to find someone to forgive him. Was it wrong of him to reach out to the only person to stand by his grave?"
Father Ramirez's mood lightened. "No, my son," he answered gently, "it was not wrong of this man to seek forgiveness. It was also not wrong of you to offer him pity. It was the right thing to do." Of course, Father Ramirez thought sadly, it is wrong that you think you can hear the dead. But in the grand scheme of things that was not such a terrible thing and hopefully it could be remedied.
Father Ramirez decided that he'd heard enough. He'd contact the archdiocese for assistance in finding Antonio a doctor - a good one. For all his years of service, the man deserved nothing less. "And is this all that you wish to confess?" Father Ramirez prodded, hoping that there'd be no more. "That you have been forgiving the dead?"
"No," came the firm reply. "I do not regret offering comfort to those I could help. My regret is that I did not help more."
There was a moment where Father Ramirez pondered what to say next. Antonio was suffering from delusions of grandeur but he had committed no sins. This was a delicate situation and Father Ramirez wanted to handle it correctly. "Perhaps," he began slowly, "now that I am here, you do not need to feel so remorseful. Given the circumstances you did the best that you could and not I, nor anyone else, can fault you for it. Maybe together we can do better for the community."
Father Ramirez could hear Antonio give a long sigh of relief. "Thank you Father," he said in the voice of one newly released from a private prison. "That is all that I wanted."
"I am glad that you feel that way, Antonio. I wish very much to --"
"Father Ramirez!" A voice cried from the back of the church. "Come quick!"
Father Ramirez sat bolt upright, startled by the interruption. With one swift move he pulled back the curtain to the booth and stepped out into the church. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded of the figure running up the aisle. His voice boomed off the high vaulted ceilings. "I'm in the middle of hearing confessions. Why are you yelling in my church?"
"Father Ramirez," the young man who came up to him said anxiously. "You must come quickly. There has been an accident!"
Father Ramirez took the twelve year-old by the shoulders. It was Pedro, one of the local boys who helped out around the grounds. "Calm down my son, tell me what has happened."
Pedro gulped hard and his large brown eyes were filled with fear. His words came out in a torrent of unfettered excitement. "It was an accident. It was hot and we were working on the cemetery wall replacing the stones that had fallen down and we were talking when he gasped and fell over. At first I thought he'd just slipped but then I saw that he wasn't' breathing so I ran for the doctor but when the doctor came it was too late and the doctor said there was nothing to do and that I should come and get you."
Father Ramirez had barely caught all of it but he understood the point well enough. He crossed himself at the unfortunate news that one of his flock had passed away. "Tell the doctor that I will be there momentarily. I'm in the middle of taking confessions." The boy nodded his head that he would.
Father Ramirez turned to face the confession box. Antonio had not emerged from the darkened booth to see what the commotion was about and, perhaps, that was best. The things he'd confessed warranted careful consideration. "Antonio," Father Ramirez said to the closed curtain, "I must go. We will speak about what you have told me again. I will need to consult with a few people and I will advise you then on what to do. In the mean time, say three Our Fathers and two Hail Mary's, and go in peace." Father Ramirez turned to leave and nearly ran into Pedro. The boy was standing behind him.
"Father," the boy's voice quivered, "who were you talking to?"
Father Ramirez frowned. "It is none of your business who comes to confess, young man. It is a private matter between a Christian and his God."
But Pedro stared at him with disbelieving eyes. "You said: Antonio."
Father Ramirez grimaced at his lack of discretion. He should have known the boy wouldn't have gone that quickly. "That is none of your concern," he chided. "Everyone should go to confession at least once a week. As a matter of fact," he said, poking the boy playfully in the chest. "When was the last time you came to confession?"
But Pedro wasn't looking at him. He had his eyes fixed on the curtained confessional. "Father," he whispered, "you did not ask me who died."
Father Ramirez rolled his eyes in frustration. "It does not matter. All of God's children are of equal --"
"It was Antonio," Pedro said softly.
Father Ramirez wasn't sure he'd heard the boy correctly. "Who?"
Pedro met Father Ramirez's eyes. "It was Antonio, the gravedigger."
Father Ramirez frowned. How could that be? Was someone playing a joke on him? "Do as I told you," he said to Pedro. "Tell the doctor that I am coming." The boy glanced past him towards the confessional. "And tend to your own business." He physically turned the boy around and pushed him towards the doors. Pedro took off like a shot.
Father Ramirez turned and also faced the confessional. Whoever he'd been talking to was still in there. The person could not have left without going past him. Anger rose in him. There will be a fine penance to be paid for this trick. Grabbing the curtain he pulled it back with a jerk.
"All right, out with --" The booth was empty. There was no one there.
How could that be? Looking in and checking about he could find no evidence that anyone had been there. It had sounded like Antonio. The person spoke with the same soft voice, the same serious manner. Yet, how could it have . . . Father Ramirez grabbed a hold of the doorframe to steady himself. Antonio had said that the dead spoke because they had something to say. Those words echoed in Father Ramirez's mind. The dead sometimes needed someone to hear them.
Alone in the silent church, Father Ramirez began to nod his head as understanding filled him. Antonio had held a holy office. It was not one the gravedigger had taken lightly and, perhaps, not one Father Ramirez should take lightly either. A man died and Father Ramirez, as the village priest, had heard his final confession. That was not the correct order in which these things were done but Father Ramirez had come to expect unusual things from his flock. No doubt, he thought as he turned and began to walk towards the cemetery, they would continue to surprise him.
(Author's Note: This story originally appeared in the July '04 edition of Alien Skin Magazine. One reader wrote to tell me that he thought it was one of the best horror stories he'd ever read. I'd have to say that was one of the best e-mails I'd ever gotten.(/I)
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