Over the next half-hour, Billy lived three lives and a hundred years of fear and guilt. What if McKenzie found out that he’d lied to his mother about other things—like the eggs that he ate without telling anyone—and the apples he’d stolen from Mrs. Dolan’s orchard two years ago. Perhaps McKenzie had forgotten about him altogether.
As he was working up the courage to bolt for the freedom of the beautiful May morning, McKenzie had strolled in with his vestments still on. Without speaking, he’d beckoned Billy to follow him into the sacristy, the inner sanctum where the priest held his private prayers before services.
Entering the chamber, Billy noticed a large enamel basin of water in the prayer alcove. It rested on a chair above the kneeling cushion, and Billy didn’t recall seeing it there before. McKenzie turned to face him as he walked in, appraised Billy’s new suit coldly, and began: “I see you’re looking immaculate in your new attire. But we both know you’re far from immaculate, Mr. Donovan. In fact, I fear we have both become entangled in your sin, one which you have not repented and for which I should never have given you absolution. Now we are both sinners and must repent and atone together.”
Billy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was terror-stricken and groped for words, hoping to appease his accuser. “I know, Father, it was all my fault. I did steal the penknife. I’m a thief—I meant ta say dat—an’ I’ll say another penance if ya want me to. Sure, none of it was your fault. I’m to blame for it all.”
McKenzie’d smiled a twisted, cat-like, little smile, waving off Billy’s surrender. “I’m sorry. It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. We have sinned together in the eyes of God and so, must repent together. “
“But, Father McKenzie…”
Billy never finished the plea. Suddenly, he’d felt his head explode from McKenzie’s vicious slap and he found his face buried in the cold basin of water, the curate’s pudgy body pressed against his. The high-pitched voice had taken on a hoarse, urgent tone: “Shut up and repent. You must learn humility, to be cleansed from your vile habits and submit to the body and blood of Christ. You are going to learn about the true meaning of submission by the time this morning is done.”
Billy had struggled for air, felt his lungs burning, but the clammy hands held his face under. Writhing in agony, Billy had managed to raise his head for a moment—a moment of blessed oxygen, only to be pushed under again, the clammy hands surprisingly strong.
Right before the room began spinning, Billy remembered thinking, “This is what death feels like,” as his thoughts slowed, and he was sure he must be dreaming all this. In the haze, he felt his pants slipping down, and wondered why, as though observing someone else from a distance.
A moment later, he knew this was no dream when the searing dagger of pain exploded through his body, inward and upward, as if he were being eviscerated. He’d tried to scream, but McKenzie, breathing heavily, rammed his head violently under water, before abruptly releasing the death grip to grasp his victim’s torso with both clammy hands.
Billy remembered the first thing he saw as he came up for air—the stained–glass window in the vestry door bouncing up and down. That was before he felt the blood running down the back of his legs. Oddly, a question had floated up about the blood stains on his new pants: what he’d tell his mother? That was his last thought before the room went completely black.
When Billy came to, McKenzie was kneeling in the alcove, praying. He watched the bowed figure for what seemed like a long time, afraid to make a sound. Finally, McKenzie blessed himself, stood and turned. “Feeling better, I see,” he said, smiling brightly. “We always feel better after we repent and make our peace with God. Now you can go forth with full confidence that your sins have been forgiven and that you can rejoin the community of the righteous.”
Billy said nothing, just stared straight ahead, dazed. He tried to stand, but fell back down on the hard seat, only to feel a searing agony rack his whole body. He vomited all over the vestry floor, as Father McKenzie adopted a concerned attitude of spiritual guide and comforter of the unwell.
McKenzie methodically cleaned up the mess, using the basin of water and the towels normally covering the Eucharist. He turned to Billy and spoke in a whisper, as if with a co-conspirator. “Now then, young man, I know this cannot have been easy for you; it never is when we stray from the path and His way. But the Lord is all-knowing, all-seeing. He sets these trials in front of us for a reason—so that we can overcome them and grow stronger. What happened here today will remain between you and the Lord; I am a mere vessel for his commands. It is important, no, imperative, under pain of eternal damnation, that we never discuss our penance outside the walls of this chapel. It is God’s law, not mine. You do understand this, yes?”
“Yes, Father, I understand. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good, then we may leave in full confidence that all will be well. I’ll drop you by your home on my way back to Killgarson House. My housekeeper will be very cross with me for being late.”
On the drive, McKenzie was in high spirits, chatty in a way Billy had never imagined him to be. “You know, Billy, when I was a young priest in Mali—working among the Tuareg tribe near Timbuktu—young men scarcely older than you went through a series of organized ordeals called ‘rites of passage.’ A common one was circumcision—a cutting of the privates; another was one similar to what you’ve just experienced, with a respected elder of the tribe, like myself and the other priests in Killgarson.”
Reaching for the lighter under the dashboard of the Austin Healy, he lit a Player cigarette, warming to his lecture. He took a deep drag and blew a perfect smoke ring before continuing. “You see, it’s all part of growing up in these primitive cultures. We moderns have lost our traditional rites and rituals. But I can tell you from first-hand knowledge, they build character. A key to success is that the young men must never complain about the pain or the healing; otherwise, it fails.”
He fell silent for a while, taking quick, nervous drags on the Player. Then came the conclusion: “They never, ever complain. They do it alone to show they’re men. We need to reinstate rites of passage here in Ireland; we used to have them back in pre-Norman, Celtic days. The younger generation needs to learn something about that history, about character; about some of those old ways.”
So that’s what it was, Billy thought. He’d just been through a “rite of passage.” Did McKenzie put other boys through this? Or was it just for sinners who didn’t repent? Now that Billy had given his word not to say anything about it, things had to stay as they were. How would he describe it anyway? No one would believe what just happened—the brutality of the assault, the near-drowning, the… other thing, and the indescribable agony. Or the guilt and shame he was feeling for having been part of it; a bit like being a fence.... And what might this be called? he’d wondered.
Driving at breakneck speed up the winding mountain boreen toward the Donovan farmhouse, McKenzie droned on with his lecture while Billy tuned him out. As the farm came into view, he was reminded of more immediate concerns: What would he tell his mother about the blood stains on his new suit? How would he explain the lateness home from Mass? And the fact that he could barely walk or sit? His mind was a jumble of confusion as he lifted his broken body out of the Austin and willed himself down the laneway to the ancient farmhouse.
(to be continued next Friday)