Frankland stroked his chin and smiled. “We’ll do that. But there’s something I want you to do for us. I want you to take your truck back to town, and gather up every single one of those porn videos, and bring them back here. And then we’ll light a nice bonfire, and burn every video, and you can apologize to the community for bringing that filth into our midst.”
“And then,” Garb added, nodding, “because you are no longer a threat to us, we will accept you into our community, and give you food and shelter.”
Magnusson had gone pale. His jaw worked. His blue eyes glowed. “This is the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard. You can’t make those kind of conditions. This is America, damn it!” Frankland nodded. “That’s true. This is a free country. You have a free choice—to stay, or go.”
“Leaving means starvation for my family!”
“Staying,” Frankland said, “means repentance.”
“Look up,” said Garb, “and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.” Magnusson glared from Frankland to Garb and back again. Then he hesitated. He glanced at his wife and son. He licked his lips.
Frankland smiled. He knew he had won.
The world had become a better place.
TWENTY-ONE
A gentleman attempting to pass from Cape Girardeau to the pass of St. Francis, found the earth so much cracked and broke, that it was impossible to get along. The course must be about 50 miles back of the Little Prairie. Others have experienced the same difficulty in getting along, and at times had to go miles out of their way to shun those chasms.
“I peddled pornography.” Magnusson’s voice, amplified by the speakers, floated through the yellow curtains into Robitaille’s room. “I didn’t care about the consequences.”
“Yes, Father Robitaille?” Frankland said. “You wanted to see me?” Frankland gasped for breath in the foul air of Robitaille’s room. When the message came that Robitaille had asked to see him, he’d left his morning service, right in the middle of Magnusson’s ritual confession. Robitaille looked appalling. Gray, moist-skinned, with dark blooms around his eyes. The straggling whiskers on his face were more white than gray. The priest’s tongue, dark and leathery, flickered out in a lizardlike way to moisten his cracked lips.
He wants to talk, Frankland thought. Robitaille’s salvation, he thought, was hanging by a thread.
“Where am I?” Robitaille croaked.
“In my home. This is my spare room.” He looked at Robitaille curiously. “Do you remember the earthquake? The broken bridge?”
The priest gave a long sigh. Frankland peered at him cautiously, wondering if the Demon Desbestioles had finally vacated Robitaille’s body, or whether he was in for another battle with the forces of darkness.
“I corrupted children!” Magnusson cried on the PA. “I broke God’s laws.” Robitaille’s eyes moved uneasily at the sound of the amplified voice.
“May I have some water?” the priest asked.
“Of course, Father Robitaille. Can you keep the water down?”
“I think so.”
The porn-peddler Magnusson moaned about his sins and begged his neighbors for forgiveness while Frankland left the room and came back with a glass of water. Robitaille raised a scabbed, scarred hand to take the glass, but the hand trembled so much that Frankland sat on the bed, raised Robitaille with an arm around his shoulders, and held the glass to his lips. Robitaille took several careful sips, then began to swallow eagerly. But he coughed, and spluttered, and in the end pushed the glass away. Frankland looked down. The consciousness of a miracle glowed inside him. This was the real Robitaille, he thought, the demon had gone.
“There’s more water when you want it,” Frankland said. “I’m glad you’ve come back to us.” Robitaille dropped with a sigh to his soiled pillow.
“Forgive me, Lord Jesus!” Magnusson wailed. “Forgive me, everybody!” Robitaille’s eyes wandered to the window. “What is that? Who is talking?”
“Brother Magnusson,” Frankland said. “Bear State Videoramics.”
“What—” Robitaille licked his lips “—what is he talking about?” Frankland smiled and slapped his thigh. “He’s doing penance. You should know how that works, right?
Being a priest?”
Robitaille furrowed his brows, but the act of comprehension seemed too much for him. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s the end of the world!” Frankland said cheerfully. “The flock must be purified. I make the sinners confess their sin, in public, so the people can learn.”
Robitaille still seemed puzzled. “Make them? How make them?”
Joy filled Frankland. Two thousand years, and neither the Pope nor his followers had worked out this one.
“See, we need everyone pulling together on this,” he said. “Times are critical. Nobody made any preparations but us. We can’t have disharmony, we have to speak with one voice. Anything that acts against scriptural reason has to be controlled.
“So what I do is make examples. I show what happens if people step from the straight and narrow. So people like Magnusson, now, they confess or they don’t eat. And their families don’t eat, either. And they confess sincere, because we can tell the difference.
“And the neat thing,” Frankland said, his enthusiasm growing, “after the first few, people got the idea. People are volunteering to come up and confess before the congregation. They talk about their problems with alcohol, with adultery—you’d be surprised how they talk. I get a kick watchin’ ’em, I really do.
“It’s working!” Frankland said. “See, I wrote it all down years ago! I have it on a schedule. Day 5—people come to a realization of sin. And that’s what happened!” Robitaille closed his eyes again. He looked very old and very tired. His lips moved, but nothing came out.
“What was that, Father?” Frankland leaned closer.
Robitaille made an effort. “You… can’t,” he said. “Can’t do that.” Frankland looked at the priest in surprise. “Can’t do what?”
Frankland could see Robitaille’s eyes moving under the pale, closed lids. The words came as a forced whisper from his cracked lips. “You are presuming to judge the Mystical Body of Christ. That is for God alone.”
Frankland reared back in surprise. The Body of Christ, he knew, was a fancy theological term for the congregation of Christian believers. He looked down at Robitaille. “I don’t get it,” he said. “I figured you’d like this part. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You listen to confession. You make people do penance.” Robitaille’s lips began moving again. Frankland leaned closer in order to hear. “… not… how it works,” he said. “Not just confession. Must be… truly contrite. Perform satisfaction to God.” He shook his head.
“Not public. Not… this. The Mystical Body of Christ is judged by the Lord alone.” Anger flared in Frankland. All these fine distinctions were pointless, he thought, the world wasn’t about to allow for fine distinctions anymore. Good or evil, take your choice, pay the penalty. That’s how it worked.
“Well,” Frankland said, “not to engage in debate, here, Father, but this is the dang end of the world, ain’t it? I can’t have bad influences in my people—I want everyone to go to Heaven, not just the few with the strength to fight the Antichrist on their own.”
Robitaille shook his head. His words were barely audible. “Can’t… judge…”