The Reverend Coldwell performed the last benediction of his late-night service and turned back to the altar.
St. Lawrence's was the only church in Alphabet City to provide such a late service on a regular basis, and the Reverend was pleased to have maintained it for so long. This service always drew a scattering of attendees: of vagrants, of the homeless and the hopeless, of the lost, the lonely and the drunk. If one person took spiritual comfort from the service that was performed, the Reverend considered it worthwhile.
The church was mid-nineteenth century and desperately in need of refurbishment; however, there were no funds for an inner-city church without a resident congregation.
The children of the night are this church's congregation, thought the Reverend as he turned away from the altar, expecting to see an empty church now that the service was over.
Instead, he saw a young man sitting in one of the far-left pews, at the end of a row, his head partially bowed, almost obscuring his thin face from the Reverend's viewpoint.
The Reverend stepped down from the altar and moved quietly towards him. The young man saw him coming and quickly lowered his head.
"Can I help you?"
The young man did not look up; the Revered could see, now, that his eyes were closed. He studied this boy in the silence: he could see, now, that he was thin—like one suffering from an illness, either of the mind or the body.
"Is there a God?"
The Reverend studied him, waiting for his head to raise. When it did not, he said, "I believe so."
"You believe so. But do you know?" There was no harshness in his words.
"We aren't meant to know. That's the nature of faith: if we knew, we wouldn't have the free will to choose him or reject him. Then it wouldn't be the same, would it?" The young man didn't raise his head, nor did he respond. "Are you a Christian, my son?"
"I was born a Jew... I don't know why I'm here. But I used to be..." And the young man laughed, quiet and derisive. "...devout."
"Until when?"
"I... I don't know. When I was a teenager, it stopped being important."
"And it's important to you now?"
"I don't know... I need help."
"Do you want to tell me what's troubling you?"
"Do you believe in evil, Father?"
The Reverend wasn't derailed by the question—nor did he hesitate in his answer. "Yes, I do."
"Do... do you believe that good will always... triumph over evil?"
"In the long run? Yes. Although sometimes it does seem to take a long time for the scales to balance—and people do get badly hurt along the way."
The young man's voice broke as he spoke again:
"Why do they have to get hurt?"
The Reverend couldn't see the young man's face, but the pain in his voice was like a physical wound. Nothing but an honest answer would be good enough.
After a long pause, he said, "I don't know."
There was another long pause. The young man spoke, so softly that the elderly Reverend had to strain to hear him.
"I've come to the only place I can think of that could help..."
Unaccountably, without knowing anything about this boy or any of the trouble that he was in, the Reverend Coldwell felt the bitter grip of sorrow in his throat for him. Something had happened to this boy; only God knew what—God and whoever had hurt him.
"Won't you let me help you?"
The Reverend turned back, aware that the candles on the altar were still lit. He snuffed them out with the extinguisher; fragrant smoke wafted up to curl in tendrils before the lights set behind the altar.
"Come back with me. We'll talk further—I'll see if there's anywhere I could contact for..."
When he turned back, the young man had gone.
But the sorrow remained.