Timeline B: (x-y)=0.95 (1:13) (N:corrupt)
The priest…
Or was he a preacher? The term, strictly speaking, is denominational; and yet there is something buried deep in the human understanding, the bones of the brain as it were, that tell us this is not so. A "priest", we know, is haughty and ascetic; much given to the swirling of robes and the flouting of incense; one imagines a hawk nose, a book on divinity, and threateningly-twirled chasuble. "Out, out of this house of God" type stuff. (This we know in the same way we know that a "vicar" is mild-mannered, wears a dog collar, collects stamps or butterflies, and is forever getting accused of innocent mischief with the housekeeper, usually in a broom cupboard. It simply is.)
Now a preacher; there is the meat of the discussion. A preacher, the inner critic says, must be wild-eyed, and much weathered. A ragged grey beard, one suspicious stone-grey eye peering out of a mass of wild white hair. Half a pint of whisky hidden inside a hollowed-out bible and a shotgun down the trouser leg. Much given to rhetoric, and the casting-out of demons. Grizzled, in short. And often guardian of a remote and distant parish.
So we can take comfort in knowing that while the man in question was a priest by divine selection, he was a preacher, as it were, in spirit.
Good. Glad we got that sorted out.
The preacher scratched at his grizzled grey beard, took a gulp from the bottle of Divine Spirit he kept under the lectern for help in Trying Times. He was suspicious. He had not seen hide nor hair of a human supplicant in close to a month (though he had enjoyed giving a fire-and-brimstone sermon on Repentance For The Fleshly Sins to a snow fox that had wandered in out of the cold,) and he was beginning to suspect that he was either (A) going mad or (B) that he had definitely filled in the wrong form at the job office. To suddenly have this young couple, windswept and bedraggled though they were, turn up on the doorstep of the Last Chance Alaskan Pentecostal Church ("cradle to coffin, we git r dun" was the slogan) and demand a wedding - "as quick as you can"- made this one of the oddest ceremonies he'd ever had the misfortune to preside over.
The girl picked impotently at her nails. In deference to the alleged occasion, she had tried to spruce herself up- so in lieu of a bouquet, she had grabbed up a handful of conifer branches, and she had run stiffened fingers through her auburn hair in a futile attempt to tidy it up. Unfortunately, this had an effect that could be kindly described as "interesting" and unkindly described as "antagonistic". She had been waiting now for ten minutes.
Ah, yes. That was the other strange thing about this alleged wedding.
"My dear," the preacher had said, unfamiliar circuits sparking in his head as he attempted, for the first time in a long time, to be avuncular, "I'll admit that I ain't done my lion's share of wedding before, this countryside being what it's like, all death-dealin' and such; but I'm definitely sure that, in a wedding, more than one person is supposed to be involved. More than that, even," he said helpfully, "if you're a Mormon."
"Oh, don't worry," the girl had said flatly. "He'll be here."
Twitch, twitch. Pick, pick. The girl seemed incapable of standing still. He rallied his meagre forces for another attempt at tact.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, leaning on the pulpit in the much-celebrated manner of Abbott preparing the wind-up, "I've heard of weddings where the young man just never showed up; can you believe that? Just upped and walked away, never to be seen again. Now," he said, warming to his theme, "it's never usually the poor woman's fault-"
"Hush." She said, tensing. He hushed; but couldn't hear the noise she was straining towards; some bruise in the air just beyond hearing. Ah, he thought. The stress; she's hearing things. Probably all in her mind. There will be some psychology at the foot of this, mark my words. (The preacher believed very strongly in Psychology; he believed it was the root of all evil, and a key part in humanity's inability to get up and just walk it off. He wound up for the pitch again: ) "-usually if the- aherm- pitter-patter of tiny feet has begun to pitter-patter just a little too early-"
She held up an admonitory palm. Given that the arm which joined the palm was roughly twice the size of his own, he abruptly complied. She narrowed her gaze at what seemed to him to be an empty, if shadowed, corner of the room. He was about to ask-
The pine sprigs fell away in a shower of green needles. In a single movement, she had drawn and sighted with a small but serviceable handgun at the offending corner. She did not look like she was joking.
"Snake!" she hollered. "On the ground, NOW!"
One of the shadows hovered, uncertain. She gestured with the gun.
"I'm not kidding around, Snake!"
The shadow paused.
The gun made a ratchet noise as it was cocked.
The shadow detached itself, and walked sullenly forwards. It resolved itself into the shape of the mildly-perturbed looking young man who had schussed up to the front door of the church earlier that day, riding that snowmobile with the young lady on pillion. He still did not look happy.
"I don't like ceremonies", he muttered, approaching the altar, hands up.
"But you're doing this for me, of course." Ratchet. "Sweetie."
"Hmmph. The registry office not good enough for you?"
"Not good enough for my parents. My mother would have never forgiven me."
"Meryl-"
"Please. David?"
There was a pause. The great welling quietude of the Alaskan countryside rolled over and around them as volumes were spoken without words.
"…Of course."
The preacher quivered gently, like a larch in the breeze, as a gun snapped forward to face him.
"But as little ceremony as you can manage please, Father."
"I quite agree," said Meryl, also levelling her weapon at the gently-cardiac-arresting man of the cloth. "If you please, Father."
This, at least, he could do. Vibrating gently, he spread his arms in a generally-benevolent and hopefully non-threatening arc.
"Dearly… eh…" he looked around the church; empty except for the same sanctified snow fox, who did indeed seem interested in proceedings, "… beloved. Ahem. We are gathered here today…"
He turned an interesting shade of sickly beige as the gun barrel nudged him in the nose. In a fluid movement, he skipped over a half-a-dozen pages of the hymnbook. He looked down, (breathed a sigh of relief,) and continued; "And so, by the power vested in me…"
The wedding breakfast, (afterwards), came from a tin, and restored quite a lot of health when it did.
