by Shaun O. Ceallaigh
Albert Clark shuffled along the empty church’s central aisle, countering the weight of the oxygen tank on his back with his walking stick. He stopped beside a pew and placed another printout of the Miracle Prayer on the bench.
Once he had distributed all ten copies of the prayer, huffing large breaths, he staggered to the rear of the church and slumped onto a seat beside the bulletin table. The silence swelled to fill the space. While he waited for his lungs to settle, the needles in his joints receding, he glanced at the neat stacks of leaflets on the table—dominated by pro-life pamphlets.
A blue and white flier caught his eye. Even with his poor vision, he made out the words across the top of the page:
Do You Want a Physical Encounter
With Your Lord and Saviour?
He reached across, slipped a flier from the stack, and scanned the smaller writing beneath the bold title:
If you answered yes, then we have exciting news. Our patented system allows any true believer to experience the physical presence of God. With your own eyes, the King of Kings will stand before you ready to address your concerns.
You might be thinking such an opportunity is beyond your means. ‘How could I afford this service?’ Well, worry not, our organisation provides training in a revolutionary method—at no charge. That’s right, no charge. After your minimal training, our experienced facilitators will show you the path to the Glory of God. This is our gift to you, the Lord’s faithful followers.
Visit our website now to arrange a consultation. Hurry, this free offer is sure to book out fast. Don’t miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!
He traced his fingertip across the website address at the bottom of the flier then folded the page and slipped it into his jacket. With his task done, he got up from the chair and dragged himself toward the exit.
Outside, the morning light blinded him as he descended the steps, each one a struggle on its own. When he got to his car, he removed the oxygen tank and climbed in, taking time again for the lurch in his chest to settle. He pulled the flier from his pocket and opened it, pinching his lower lip. Was this the answer to his prayer? He looked up at the church’s stone façade. What had he to lose?
He started the car and, in a slow arc, reversed out of the driveway before driving at a crawl down the hill, toward home.
#
The bell sounded again, and Albert moved as fast as he could along his front hall, the oxygen-extractor tube connected to the facemask trailing beneath his arm, back to the humming machine. When he reached the door, gasping, he slid the security chain into place and opened up.
He peered out the narrow gap at the skinny, pale man and the short, Asian woman standing on the step.
The youngish man with the crew cut smiled. “Hello. Mr. Clarke? I believe you contacted our group to request a consultation?”
Albert nodded, unable to speak because of the mask. He unlatched the chain, opened the door, and waved the couple inside, then staggered to the sitting room.
Slumped in his favourite chair, he struggled to regain his breath, his lungs craving balance. The man and woman, both wearing white shirts tucked at the waist, stood inside the doorway. He motioned them to the sofa.
“Thank you,” the man said, the sofa creaking beneath him. Up close, Albert noticed a splash of freckles across his forehead. “Take your time, Mr. Clarke. We’re not in any rush.”
As his heaving chest returned to normal, Albert lowered the mask from his face. “I’m sorry. I find it . . . hard to move about.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Clarke. We all have our crosses to bear.”
He looked at the couple seated across from him. “You said you’re here about my email?”
“Yes. My name is Enoch, and this is Harriet.”
The brown-skinned woman raised her hand and smiled. Tiny wrinkles appeared on either side of the red dot between her eyebrows.
“I believe you wanted to know more about our system of communion with the Lord,” Enoch went on.
He nodded. Every word spoken put pressure on his lungs.
Enoch joined his hands on his lap. “Well, we just need to ask a few questions. They’re just a formality to ensure your suitability for the program.”
Albert nodded again. “Fire away.”
“Do you regularly attend religious services?”
“Yes. Yes, I try and get to mass every Sunday. It can be hard, but I . . . usually make it.”
Enoch nodded. “I can imagine. Have you found your condition challenging to your faith?”
“No, not really. God didn’t cause my lungs to clog up. Working in a pub for fifty years did that.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Funny thing is, I was never a smoker.” He took a steadying breath. “Hated the things, but they got me anyway. Secondhand, you see.”
“And that’s never put pressure on your belief in the Lord?”
“No. Like I said, it’s not God’s fault. Just bad luck.”
Enoch looked at Harriet, then back at Albert. “Mr. Clarke, I’m sorry to ask, I know it can be a very personal issue, but why are you seeking an audience with the Lord?”
Albert lowered his gaze, put off by the young man’s intense, wolflike eyes. He turned to the mantelpiece and waved at a framed photo. “My wife, you see. She died fifteen years ago. Cancer. I watched it slowly take her from me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Clarke. Our losses never leave us.”
“I know . . . I know there’s a higher reason why she was taken. And why she had to suffer so much, but . . . if I could just know why—have it explained to me—I might go to the grave easier.”
Enoch nodded, looking at his hands in his lap. “Yes. We all seek answers.” He made hard eye contact again. “Did your wife’s passing affect your faith?”
“I don’t blame God, not anymore. After she died, all I had was my faith.”
“Your love of the Lord must be very strong.”
He smiled and turned again to the photo. “I just can’t understand why we had to be separated for so long. Why I had to be left on my own.”
“Well, Mr. Clarke, in my opinion, you are a perfect candidate for induction into our system. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“Well, can you tell me more about your organisation? What exactly is it?”
Enoch beamed. “We are an association of the followers of Adam Blair. It was he who devised our system—who first put our doctrine into words.”
“What exactly is the system?”
“It’s difficult to explain but very easy to practice.”
“Will it take long to learn?”
“No, Mr. Clarke.” He smiled again. “Very soon, you’ll have your audience with the Lord.”
“Really?” He sat forward. “I’ll get to see God . . . today?”
“The system is easier than saying a prayer. Would you like to get started?”
“Now?” A fizz of excitement ran across his scalp. “We can do it now?”
Enoch and Harriet got to their feet.
“We’ll just need to get our equipment for the ceremony from the car. It will give you a moment to prepare yourself.” He looked down at Albert, his brows raised. “To be sure this is what you want.”
“It is,” Albert replied, watching the couple navigate the sofa. “There’s nothing I want more.”
Enoch glanced back from the doorway. “We won’t be a moment, Mr. Clarke. When we return, we can begin.”
“Fantastic,” he said, glancing at the photograph of his wife. “I’m ready.”
#
Albert looked up as Enoch and Harriet came back into the room. He held the framed picture of his wife—a shot taken on their honeymoon—and smiled once more at her youthful face then returned it to the mantel. “What do I need to do?”
The young couple sat on the sofa, a long green sports bag between them.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Clarke,” Enoch said. “It’s very simple. Harriet will guide you through the meditation to prepare you mentally for what’s to come. I will perform the ritual.”
Harriet got up from the sofa. “Are you ready to begin?”
He nodded, his limbs tingling with anticipation. The woman came toward him, crouched beside his chair, and told him to close his eyes.
“Okay, try to relax,” she said, the ripple of her voice strong. “Let your body go limp. Let every muscle release, like a rope going slack. All the tension is flowing from your body.”
He tried to do as the girl instructed, but it felt alien. Noises in the room distracted him: the sound of a zipper; the shuffling of cloth; the dryness of his lips and tongue; the worry it wouldn’t work.
“Picture a beautiful garden. Lush green grass gently shimmering in the breeze. Overhead, the whisper of leaves in the treetops. At the far end of the garden, a number of white rabbits are leaping through the grass. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” he said, “I can see it. I see a garden.”
“Now, this is important,” Harriet said. “We need you to deliver a message. It’s a very important message.”
He waited, picturing the dancing rabbits.
“Open your eyes, Mr. Clarke.”
He opened his eyes and jerked back on looking down the barrels of a sawed-off shotgun.
Enoch, bare-chested, every inch of skin from neck to waist covered in small crucifix-shaped scars, pushed the gun against Albert’s forehead. “You’re to deliver a message, Mr. Clarke.”
Albert gasped, pinned to his seat, the room shifting out of focus.
Enoch cocked the shotgun. “Tell your god we’re coming for him.”