It was force of habit and the custom of wartime to grant its players
something of a reduced need for sleep on frequent occasions that forced
Father Mulcahy's eyelids open at his normal hour of 700 hours the next
morning. The sheer weight of all that had happened the night before
pressed down on them like 50-pound weights, and he had the distinct
impression that his head was filled with quicksand. He pushed himself out
from between his covers, pulled his bathrobe around his undershirt and
shorts, and, hooking his glasses drearily over the neck of said shirt,
wandered across the deserted compound, led by the smell of the battery acid
locally known as coffee that emanated from the mess tent. Without a word
to Igor, who watched him, wide-eyed and silent, unused to getting the cold
shoulder from the only person ever up on Sunday mornings besides himself,
he downed three mugs' worth of the stuff before even moving away from the
dispenser. Downing another two mugs with what passed for breakfast, he
took a seventh for the road, and still was only beginning to feel awake
when he returned to his tent to change. By that time he hardly remembered
the trip across the compound and back. He stared at the empty coffee cup
as he fastened his cassock, only just then counting up how many cups he'd
just downed, and wondering at the quantity. Why on earth was he so
thirsty; what was it he needed? Something-- something energizing,
something vital, something--
He sat down on his cot in surprise, his train of thoughts bringing him back to the thrilling, intoxicating rush of adrenaline and testosterone brought on by his... rather unconventional drinking habits the night before. The memory suddenly burst into the forefront of his thoughts, rending aside the fog of his drowsiness.
"Oh, God."
His breathing became hard and rough, he stood up, paced. "Oh, God." He couldn't believe it. Now it all came flooding back, every worldly thought, every pleasure, every disgraceful act he'd engaged in, all at the whim of that... that... succubus! That foul, that revolting, demon-ridden succubus!
Filled with righteous indignation, his pacing and muttering came to a fever pitch, then broke off, all of a sudden, just as abruptly as it had started. Good lord above, he thought to himself, he drank that creature's blood last night.
Slowly, cautiously, without any of the haste of before, he stood, and walked to his footlocker, opening it up with equal deliberation and thought, burrowing to the bottom of the piles of things -- earthly things, he thought to himself with some amount of disgust mingled with impatience. He felt ill as he thought of himself bent to that creature's will, a dehumanized slave of the vampiric blood as Sparky had been pointed out to be. The tip of his finger hit something hard and cold; the standard-issue gun which had been packed at the bottom of his footlocker and not touched since he first moved in. He felt thoroughly determined not to let another such servant be borne to propagate the race of demons on earth.
It was lucky for him that a stroke of logic went though his head before he could put a bullet there. Would he really be having these thoughts about vampires if he were truly enslaved to one?
He frowned in confusion, shut the footlocker again, and sat on it. Maybe it was a trick-- some sort of trick the vampires used to make their slaves think they've retained their capacity for original thought. But if that were so, then it would be them, and not him, who were thinking that, and-- Father Mulcahy's brain was starting to pound with all the implications and possibilities when the matter was cleared up by the voice of the authorities on all such matters, as far as the priest was concerned.
"You will not be chained by blood; neither you nor any of the brothers of your quest."
Yes, those voices. Mulchay hadn't heard them in a few days; he'd begin to understand that he needed to begin to make his own decisions and forge his own way into the task God's set before him. Yet there was something inutterably comforting and stirring to the heart to know that they're there, still, watching, just in case.
Standing for a third time, neither with the agitation of a deep anxiety nor the subdued aspect of one prepared for the demon's grave, but with the self-assertion that befits a priest about to go out and perform his sacred duty, Mulcahy finished arranging his clothing and went back to the mess tent for the Sunday morning mass.
Now, normally he would have peeked into the mesh screen separating himself from the inside of the makeshift cathedral, seen the audience (today composed of a nervous-looking kid in a wheelchair with one leg up in a cast, and one slightly older soldier who'd managed to get here before his medications kicked in and had him leaning up against one of the mess tent's support beams in a kind of torpor), been disappointed, but gone in cheerful and grateful for what audience could scrape itself together out of the harsh conditions of being so close to the front. Today, he burst into the doors without hesitation and took his place behind the pulpit. Igor, who was carrying the leftover breakfast slop out the back into whatever space they used to convert breakfast slop into lunch slop, paused for a moment to have seen the Padre acting so out of character twice in one morning.
Mulcahy crossed himself and, in casting his eyes down in humble subservience to the Lord, automatically looked for the normal set of notes he'd have set there, had this week been any normal week and this Sunday been any normal Sunday. Not finding any, however, he did not, as he might have ordinarily, panic, but he looked up, lifted his chin, and began.
"The light of Sunday morning dawn once again falls on us here, in Korea, as it will on all our friends and loved ones back in America. What greater proof is there of God's love for us than this vouchsafe of protection from the night, protection from the darkness of fear and the coldness of a fate worse than the grave."
Mulcahy took a breath and looked exhortingly to each of the two members of his audience.
"I know that it is... easy... in a place such as this, where death and destruction are so rampant, to say that there is no God, or that God has no concern for us in our misery. But you must believe. People die. Such is life. We may mourn, and we may be mourned in turn, and all the good and righteous will be reunited in God's kingdom hereafter.
"But there are things in this world more severe than the death of a loved one, and much more abhorrent in the eyes of God than the temporary separation of two good souls! And to those who believe will be given the vision to see these things as they are, and not as they pretend to be. And to those who believe will be given the power to stop them. They are here! Now! Proving themselves openly! But open your eyes and see that their intentions are not as pure as they propose! They make noises and excuses for themselves, but in their dark dealings, what unholy powers will they use to trap the unwary and the unprepared.
"Protection will be given to those who recognize the true enemies of God, and a release from the binding force of their dark magics!" Mulcahy proclaimed, much to the confusion of the boy in the wheelchair, who was politely listening and quietly trying to figure out what all of this was a metaphor for, and to the consternation of the man who stirred a bit from his drug-induced slumber by the raised pitch of the Hunter's voice.
"But those who don't believe that such traps might be set for a man," he resumed, his voice now quiet and admonitory, "will easily fall into them, and might never realize the danger he's in, never listening out for warnings from a God he's sure does not exist, until the creatures he's fallen in among have..."
For once he faltered. "Have... corrupted him... to the point of... by..."
"Look, Father," the Toreador's words came rushing back to him as he tried to think of a concrete example of how she'd tried to win him over to her foul ways, "I know you might feel like... that... now, but... well, you won't, always, and you don't want to do anything that you'll regret for the rest of your life. Okay? Besides which, you're forgetting: I'm a happily married woman."
"By..." his voice trailed off to a mumble, "By stopping you from making a complete fool of yourself."
"I know it doesn't make much sense now, but it will, later, when all of this will go away," her words kept coming, despite his rather eager desire that they stop, and relieve his cheeks of the heavy burden of all this blushing. "And I'm explaining it now because you might be too angry with me later to want to speak to me and let me explain myself. So I just want to say that I'm terribly sorry for what I'm going to have to do to you."
The lad in the wheelchair was looking with a good dose of confusion toward the pulpit. A moment later, a corpsman came to see if he was ready to get back to post-op.
"Amen," Fahter Mulcahy shakily concluded, and dismissed the congregation.
~
He sat down on his cot in surprise, his train of thoughts bringing him back to the thrilling, intoxicating rush of adrenaline and testosterone brought on by his... rather unconventional drinking habits the night before. The memory suddenly burst into the forefront of his thoughts, rending aside the fog of his drowsiness.
"Oh, God."
His breathing became hard and rough, he stood up, paced. "Oh, God." He couldn't believe it. Now it all came flooding back, every worldly thought, every pleasure, every disgraceful act he'd engaged in, all at the whim of that... that... succubus! That foul, that revolting, demon-ridden succubus!
Filled with righteous indignation, his pacing and muttering came to a fever pitch, then broke off, all of a sudden, just as abruptly as it had started. Good lord above, he thought to himself, he drank that creature's blood last night.
Slowly, cautiously, without any of the haste of before, he stood, and walked to his footlocker, opening it up with equal deliberation and thought, burrowing to the bottom of the piles of things -- earthly things, he thought to himself with some amount of disgust mingled with impatience. He felt ill as he thought of himself bent to that creature's will, a dehumanized slave of the vampiric blood as Sparky had been pointed out to be. The tip of his finger hit something hard and cold; the standard-issue gun which had been packed at the bottom of his footlocker and not touched since he first moved in. He felt thoroughly determined not to let another such servant be borne to propagate the race of demons on earth.
It was lucky for him that a stroke of logic went though his head before he could put a bullet there. Would he really be having these thoughts about vampires if he were truly enslaved to one?
He frowned in confusion, shut the footlocker again, and sat on it. Maybe it was a trick-- some sort of trick the vampires used to make their slaves think they've retained their capacity for original thought. But if that were so, then it would be them, and not him, who were thinking that, and-- Father Mulcahy's brain was starting to pound with all the implications and possibilities when the matter was cleared up by the voice of the authorities on all such matters, as far as the priest was concerned.
"You will not be chained by blood; neither you nor any of the brothers of your quest."
Yes, those voices. Mulchay hadn't heard them in a few days; he'd begin to understand that he needed to begin to make his own decisions and forge his own way into the task God's set before him. Yet there was something inutterably comforting and stirring to the heart to know that they're there, still, watching, just in case.
Standing for a third time, neither with the agitation of a deep anxiety nor the subdued aspect of one prepared for the demon's grave, but with the self-assertion that befits a priest about to go out and perform his sacred duty, Mulcahy finished arranging his clothing and went back to the mess tent for the Sunday morning mass.
Now, normally he would have peeked into the mesh screen separating himself from the inside of the makeshift cathedral, seen the audience (today composed of a nervous-looking kid in a wheelchair with one leg up in a cast, and one slightly older soldier who'd managed to get here before his medications kicked in and had him leaning up against one of the mess tent's support beams in a kind of torpor), been disappointed, but gone in cheerful and grateful for what audience could scrape itself together out of the harsh conditions of being so close to the front. Today, he burst into the doors without hesitation and took his place behind the pulpit. Igor, who was carrying the leftover breakfast slop out the back into whatever space they used to convert breakfast slop into lunch slop, paused for a moment to have seen the Padre acting so out of character twice in one morning.
Mulcahy crossed himself and, in casting his eyes down in humble subservience to the Lord, automatically looked for the normal set of notes he'd have set there, had this week been any normal week and this Sunday been any normal Sunday. Not finding any, however, he did not, as he might have ordinarily, panic, but he looked up, lifted his chin, and began.
"The light of Sunday morning dawn once again falls on us here, in Korea, as it will on all our friends and loved ones back in America. What greater proof is there of God's love for us than this vouchsafe of protection from the night, protection from the darkness of fear and the coldness of a fate worse than the grave."
Mulcahy took a breath and looked exhortingly to each of the two members of his audience.
"I know that it is... easy... in a place such as this, where death and destruction are so rampant, to say that there is no God, or that God has no concern for us in our misery. But you must believe. People die. Such is life. We may mourn, and we may be mourned in turn, and all the good and righteous will be reunited in God's kingdom hereafter.
"But there are things in this world more severe than the death of a loved one, and much more abhorrent in the eyes of God than the temporary separation of two good souls! And to those who believe will be given the vision to see these things as they are, and not as they pretend to be. And to those who believe will be given the power to stop them. They are here! Now! Proving themselves openly! But open your eyes and see that their intentions are not as pure as they propose! They make noises and excuses for themselves, but in their dark dealings, what unholy powers will they use to trap the unwary and the unprepared.
"Protection will be given to those who recognize the true enemies of God, and a release from the binding force of their dark magics!" Mulcahy proclaimed, much to the confusion of the boy in the wheelchair, who was politely listening and quietly trying to figure out what all of this was a metaphor for, and to the consternation of the man who stirred a bit from his drug-induced slumber by the raised pitch of the Hunter's voice.
"But those who don't believe that such traps might be set for a man," he resumed, his voice now quiet and admonitory, "will easily fall into them, and might never realize the danger he's in, never listening out for warnings from a God he's sure does not exist, until the creatures he's fallen in among have..."
For once he faltered. "Have... corrupted him... to the point of... by..."
"Look, Father," the Toreador's words came rushing back to him as he tried to think of a concrete example of how she'd tried to win him over to her foul ways, "I know you might feel like... that... now, but... well, you won't, always, and you don't want to do anything that you'll regret for the rest of your life. Okay? Besides which, you're forgetting: I'm a happily married woman."
"By..." his voice trailed off to a mumble, "By stopping you from making a complete fool of yourself."
"I know it doesn't make much sense now, but it will, later, when all of this will go away," her words kept coming, despite his rather eager desire that they stop, and relieve his cheeks of the heavy burden of all this blushing. "And I'm explaining it now because you might be too angry with me later to want to speak to me and let me explain myself. So I just want to say that I'm terribly sorry for what I'm going to have to do to you."
The lad in the wheelchair was looking with a good dose of confusion toward the pulpit. A moment later, a corpsman came to see if he was ready to get back to post-op.
"Amen," Fahter Mulcahy shakily concluded, and dismissed the congregation.
~