Chapter Three

The town of San Juan Bautista

Rizal Province, Philippines

May 1906

The man rolled off onto his side with his back to the woman. Both lay still for a short while, spent by the effort of their passion. Then she turned and slipped her hand under his arm onto his chest and drew herself close. He felt the softness of her thighs against his buttocks and her breasts as they pressed against his back. He put his hand over hers. He wanted to say something, to speak words of love or gratitude, but nothing came. Other thoughts filled his mind. He pressed her hand, a gesture, something in place of the words that should have come. Outside, a bell tolled the hour. Five o’clock. Now words came, not the ones he wanted but ones he had to say.

‘It is time.’

‘Yes, I understand. I will go. No one will see me.’

Her hand slipped from under his and he felt her body move away. He turned, lay on his back, and looked at her. It would not be sunrise for at least another half an hour but there was enough dawn light coming through the window to see her sitting on the edge of the bed running her fingers through her long, black hair. She was so young and so beautiful, like a dark angel. He watched as she stood up and left, closing the door silently behind her.

It was time to get up and begin the day but the man lay still for several minutes thinking. What had happened? Had it been love or lust? It could not be both. Why had it happened? Why had he let it happen? Sex was something that should only take place in marriage. Outside of marriage it was a deadly sin, an ugly stain that left a terrible disfigurement on the soul. Lust was not something beautiful like married love; it was nothing more than the feeding of animal appetite. Sex outside marriage made a man like a beast of the field and the women who gave their bodies to such men were fallen women, creatures of the devil. Dark angels.

And here his thought came to a sudden stop. The well-known formulas he had learned and lived by now suddenly sounded false. Was the young woman who had just left his bed a fallen woman, a creature of the devil? Was he no more than a beast? The image of her naked form came back to him and he felt his passion returning. He threw off the sheet, got out of bed, and looked down at his half-risen penis. Yes, it was true, he was no better than a beast, a creature of lust and passion, an animal, a sinner.

There was a knock at his door followed by a woman’s voice.

‘Father, are you awake? Are you up? It is time to get ready or you will be late for Mass.’

The priest answered.

‘I am up, Maria, I will be ready soon.’

‘Do you want a lamp, Father?’

‘No, no lamp, nothing. Thank you.’

Thoughts of the young woman were swept away as he returned to reality. He was in a state of mortal sin but there was still a morning Mass to be said. What should he do? There was no other priest in San Juan to hear his Confession and give him absolution even if he had the time to go to Confession, and in the case of a mortal sin a good Act of Contrition was of no avail. For a moment he stood irresolute. What should he do? What could he do? Then, almost automatically he washed himself, dressed, and began to take up his daily routine.

Not many minutes later, wearing his long white soutane and a wide-brimmed straw hat, he left the house, crossed the gravel path through the garden, and went to a small doorway in the side of the big, white church which stood next to the priest’s house and entered. Once inside his fingers found the holy water font; he blessed himself and made his way from the dark of the priest’s doorway into the dim candlelight which came from the altar. Marble altar rails ran across the front of the sanctuary. At these, communicants knelt to receive what to anyone else were small, round pieces of flat bread, but they believed were in some mystical way the body and blood of their Lord, Jesus the Christ. In the middle of these marble rails were low, wrought-iron gates which gave access to the sanctuary. At these gates the priest turned and faced the altar. A tier of three, broad steps led up to the main altar which was also was marble but draped now in heavy, coloured cloths with the Latin inscription Sanctus Sanctus Sanctus sewn into it in heavy silver and red threads and over which lay a pure white linen sheet. A Catholic altar ready for the Mass. Behind the flat surface of the altar, on its own elaborate plinth stood the domed tabernacle, draped in heavy, expensive cloth: gold embroidered brocade, a temple within a temple, the inner-sanctum of the true God.

The priest stood for a moment gazing at the tabernacle in which was housed that most holy of holies, the bread which was the Christ. Solemnly he lowered himself onto one knee, waited for a moment with head bowed, then stood up. Big candles in heavy, brass candlesticks sat each end of the altar already lit, the heavy Mass book lay on its stand, and the Mass cards were in place on either side of the tabernacle. Everything was in readiness for the service to begin. Behind the tabernacle six more tall candles were throwing their light out into the darkness that shrouded the nave of the church, and to either side of the altar were vases of bright, fresh flowers.

Sunrise would come just before six when Mass began and the church would fill with light as the service progressed. Dawn Masses in the weeks after the great feast of Easter had always been his favourite, like some wonderful new resurrection each day. But now it was different. He feared the coming of the light, feared that he would see himself for what he was, a creature of the night, of lust and darkness. The new light would rise to reveal a priest in mortal sin performing a blasphemous parody of the Holy Rite. None of the congregation would be able to see this new reality but God saw, and from the great crucifix that hung high above the altar Jesus, hanging, dying, suffering for sinful humanity, would see, take his terrible sin on his own holy shoulders and go on suffering, dying.

The priest remained, standing, looking. Everything on the altar stood in readiness. To one side, from an ornate, bronze bracket on the wall, hung a small red light which was always kept burning while the tabernacle held the blessed Eucharist: the very presence of Jesus. Jesus always there, above, on the cross, hidden in the veiled tabernacle, a mystical presence, waiting, watching, knowing all, suffering but loving and waiting to forgive.

From the darkness of the church he could hear the faint murmur of private prayers. There would be over fifty people already in the church. They would be the poorer workers who came to Mass before going on to their jobs. Those in a state of grace would have done as he had done and fasted from food and drink, even water, from midnight. These elect would come to the altar rails and kneel at the low, marble rails to receive Holy Communion from his hands, but none would know that the hands who placed the holy wafer on their tongues were those of a sinner and not only a sinner but a damned soul, utterly and eternally lost. To them, in their ignorance, he would still be their priest, the same today as he was yesterday.

What might happen when he vested and came out onto the altar? Perhaps, in front of the actual divine presence he would be given some sign, some indication that he was forgiven, that he was once again worthy. But he knew there would be no sign because he had no sorrow for his sin, worse, he cherished it, cherished the memory of his entry into her, the rhythm of their bodies together, her cries, his strength, the awful ecstasy of the climax, and, most of all, the vision of her nakedness. No, there was no sorrow, no contrition. He was lost. He blessed himself, turned and slowly walked towards the sacristy door. To say Mass in a state of mortal sin put him beyond forgiveness, beyond the mercy of God. It was the unforgiveable sin, presumption, placing oneself above God, making a god of yourself. In the sacristy he took up the vestments already laid out for him by the old sacristan and as he put on the white robe and over it the heavy chasuble he knew that from now on he would be no more than a whited sepulchre, the same on the outside but inside full of filth and corruption, a beast, a creature of the devil.

The old sacristan waited patiently already wearing the white cotter over the long black cassock, the uniform of an altar server, the priest’s assistant at Mass.

The priest joined his hands and nodded to the sacristan. He was ready. The sacristan went in front of him and at the sacristy door rang a small bell. The people in the church stood for the entrance. Dawn light was already beginning to stream into the church. The pair moved out onto the altar and genuflected at the foot of the three stairs which led up to the altar proper. With his back to the people the priest spoke to opening words.

‘Introibo ad altare Dei.’

I will go unto the altar of God.

The reedy voice of the sacristan responded.

‘Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.’

To God who giveth joy to my youth.

The priest paused. He had never before thought the words absurd on the lips of the old man beside him. Now he thought them worse than absurd. They were an indictment. Youth and joy had gone in one brief act of the flesh and with them innocence and purity. To pretend otherwise and continue would be the worst kind of cowardice as well as a blasphemy. He should turn and walk away in proper shame. There was a silence as the priest and sacristan stood at the foot of the altar steps.

The sacristan glanced at him with a look of concern. Somebody in the congregation coughed. Everyone waited, wondering.

The priest fought with himself in an agony of guilt and indecision. A choice must be made and must be made now.

Then a voice, his own, filled the church.

‘Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini.’

Our help is in the name of the Lord.

‘Qui fecit caelum et terram.’

Who made heaven and earth.

The Mass had begun. Life would go on.