“Sometimes it is hard to distinguish dream from reality, truth from fiction, false memories from the real. We all struggle with it. And this still seems like a dream to me, although I have touched the evidence, felt its coarse fabric beneath my fingers.” His hand moved through the air as though he were drawing it down the surface of a curtain. “On free days I often go fishing south of Taverly. This season has been especially great for the trout. Some days the lake swarms with them, their bodies rippling beneath the surface like muscle. There are so many they rock the boat.”
Several days ago I was fishing, standing on the portside of my scow, line stretched taut, when suddenly the mother herself appeared before me. No one is ready for an epiphany and – and –“
“And he killed her!” The new priest shouted, stepping forward. I had watched him throughout the tale, watched the smile slowly spreading across his face.
“I did not!* Father Lawrence shouted, swiveling towards his interlocutor. “The line caught, and somehow it got tangled around –“
“I was there! On the shore! He strangled her! With his line!”
At this point one of the elders intervened, stepping between the pair and raising his arms. “Quiet!” He bellowed and an immediate hush fell. “In this church we comply only with the laws of the Gods and the Holy Book, and I think their rules are quite clear in this case. Father Lawrence killed our ****** mother. Perhaps by accident, perhaps not – we shall find out. We have a challenger here. The holy book states they must (a dramatic pause) fight to the death.”
I stood up to complain that this was absurd, surely the death of the holy mother negated some of what the Book said, but just then I felt a tug on my shoulder from someone in the pew behind me.
There was a sense of tipping and then I was opening my eyes to an old man in a turban.
“Sir, you fell asleep,” he said.
08-Oct-2009 06:44:42