Date:         Sat, 9 Apr 1994 03:56:48 EDT
 
 
Here's my first foray into FK fanfic, written in a feverish state of mind on
an early Saturday morning (WAY too early). Someone has got to stop the posts
on Catholicism on other lists. It makes my brain go haywire.
 
 
(With apologies to the BBC and to whomever started the whole thread about
Catholicism on the other list.)
 
 
 
 
Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned
 
 
by Beth Marchese
 
 
 
 
        Father Neil Boyd was new to the Church of St. Agnes in Toronto. Fresh from
the seminary and involved in what Father Dudeswell called, "The Baptism Of
Fire. Your first confessional."
        At first there was a string of innocent men, women and children, all
confessing to minor sins of word, thought and deed. Sins that Father Boyd
himself deemed unworthy to bother the Lord with for absolution, but sins the
Church had deemed of great import for centuries. He quickly gave absolution
and the standard penance of 10 Hail Marys, 10 Our Fathers and 10 Glory Bes.
        The last half-hour was dead, however, and Father Boyd constantly had to
fight to keep his eyes open and his chin from drooping on his chest. Though
the he could not see the outside world from his dark confessional booth, he
could sense the early sunset and darkness of mid-winter.
        He was rudely shaken to his senses at the sound of scuffling body fleeing
into the confessional next to him. He peered through the grille work,
catching a flash of a blonde man, and began the process.
        "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit," he began, making
the sign of the cross. Was it his imagination, or did the figure on the other
side of the grille flinch?
        He waited for the answering call of "Bless me father, for I have sinned," a
tradition so drilled into Catholics the world over that Father Boyd had begun
to wonder whether anyone really understood the import behind the phrase.
        The figure hesitated, as if unsure what to say, but finally remained silent.
The only answer it gave was an embarrassed cough.
        Father Boyd decided that it must've been a VERY long time for since this
Catholic walked into a confessional and tried to make the experience easier
for the penitent. "How can I help you, my son?"
        "Please excuse me, Father. It's, it's, it's been a long time since my last
confession. Too long. The English. It threw me off."
        Father Boyd peered more carefully through the grille work again, to see if
he had misjudged the age of the man on the other side. Latin had not been
spoken in these booths since Vatican II. He got the impression of youth, or
rather, of someone in their 30s. Certainly someone who would be too young to
remember Latin spoken at Mass.
        The voice was warm, enticing almost, if somewhat hesitant. Though the
language was English, it had layers of other languages behind it. A touch of
the Queen's English perhaps? French? Was there a catch of German somewhere?
Irish? Maybe Welsh? It was hard to tell.
        "That's quite alright my son. I am here to help," Father Boyd said in the
calm reassuring tone he had given to all his penitents that day. "How long
has it been since your last confession?"
        The figure shifted uncomfortably. "It's been, let me think. With my memory
you'd think I could remember," he said. It was obvious the man was
embarrassed. "It's been 764 years since my last confession."
        Father Boyd sighed. There is one in every Church. Obviously Father Dudeswell
sent him a plant to see how he'd deal with outrageous claims or the mentally
disturbed. Very well then. He would pass the test.
        "I see," the priest said. "And what is your sin, my son?"
        "I'm a vampire."
        Father Boyd felt the hair on his arms stand up straight, his skin go cold
and a gibbering fear in the back of his mind. There was no doubt that this
man, if man he was, was speaking the truth.
        His mind reeled at the impossibility of it all, after all, there were no
vampires, were there? None at all. A quaint Eastern European myth. Bela
Lugosi. That's it. Vampires, if there are any, would not come to Toronto.
They'd go to New York, Los Angeles, the bloody battlefields of the world,
Chicago, even. But NOT Toronto.
        But the part of him that had dedicated his life to the Divine Mysteries of
the Church, the mind that was could be coldly sensible in real life, but
could believe in the possibility of a Trinity, a Virgin Birth and the
changing of bread and wine into body and blood, BELIEVED.
        "Father?" ventured a concerned voice on the other side of the grille.
        Was it Father Boyd's imagination, or did that voice have a touch of fear in
it? The priest wanted to laugh out loud. This man, creature, whatever, could
kill him without a thought and he, or it, was afraid.
 
"I'm here," the priest said. He hated himself for the shaky quality his voice
had taken on. "You took me by surprise, that's all."
        The figure started on the other side of the grille, as if surprised by the
answer, but remained in the box.
        Father Boyd continued. "Since I've never heard of anyone dealing with such a
problem before, I guess I'm going to have to compare you to another group."
        "You mean a comparison can be made?" Was that contempt in the voice?
        "Ah, I know," the priest said. "Homosexuals."
        The figure snorted.
        "According to Cannon Law, homosexuality is a neutral state. It is the
practice itself that is a sin, since there can be no sex outside of marriage
and the Church does not recognize homosexual marriages."
        "A pretty catch-22," the voice floated back.
        Father Boyd fought the urge to agree. Instead, he continued his thread.
"Therefore, it would seem to me, that being a vampire is a neutral state. It
would be practicing vampirism that would be the sin."
        The voice bitterly laughed. "You're a little late. You can't live as long as
I have and not killed."
        The priest curled his hands into fists, the nails biting into his palms, in
an effort to fight down the panic. "I see. Then when was the last time
you..."
        "Killed?" the voice finished for him. "Killed to feed, almost a century ago.
Killed? A few months ago."
        "There's a difference?" Father Boyd, despite himself, was getting
interested. He wasn't sure if it was the situation or the hypnotic voice.
        "A woman, a friend, she's trying to help me stop...being what I am," the
man, or thing, chose its words carefully. "Her brother, he was dying. She
begged me to save him. To make him like me. I tried to resist. I told her it
was a mistake. I did it anyway."
        "You mean to tell me that this woman, this friend of yours, knows WHAT you
are?" Father Boyd was stunned.
        "yes." the voice was small, soft, sad.
        "Please, please, continue," the priest urged.
        "He became a, well, like me. He killed. I had to stop him before more lives
were lost."
        "You killed him?"
        "You can't kill something already dead," the voice answered,
matter-of-factly.
        "Do you believe you are dead?" the priest asked.
        Silence.
        "Then if you are dead, why are you here?"
        "I don't know. Maybe I should go. This was a mistake." The figure made to
move.
        "Wait! Wait!" Father Boyd said. "Not yet. Sit down. Or kneel. Whatever."
        The figure settled down and waited.
        "How many have you killed?'
        "Hundreds, maybe a thousand. I don't know. You lose track over the course of
800 years." The sadness again.
        The priest sat there. For a terrible moment, he felt the burden of this
man's sin, a guilt that would weigh down the world. He looked to the crucifix
for help, but the bronze figure of a crucified savior gave no answers and
offered no advice.
        "Would we blame the lion for killing the lamb?"
         "I'm sorry?" the voice said quickly.
        "Forgive me. I was thinking aloud," the priest said. He leaned forward,
trying to get a better look, wishing he could reach through the grille and
touch the wondrous creature on the other side.
        "You cannot live in the past, my son. The murders, yes, they were murders,
ended a century ago, by your count. Though technically, there is no statute
of limitations on murder, I would imagine that no one would believe you if
you publicly confessed."
        Father Boyd looked at his hands. His next words would have to be chosen
carefully. Very carefully. "That you have not killed to feed, as you put it,
for over a century, gives you a bit of leeway here. Though I'm sure there are
more than a few, both in and out of this Church, that might think otherwise."
        He looked through the grille again. "What do you do now?"
        "I'm a cop."
        "A blue knight," Father Boyd said thoughtfully.
        "A dark knight," the man corrected.
        "But a protector nonetheless," Father Boyd answered. "Seems you are making
your own penance here. A job requiring you to protect life, not take it. A
search to stop being a vampire. A stop to the killing. These are not small
steps and it is a start."
        Father Boyd sat up. "Go in peace my son. Do not kill again."
        He was met with a stunned, dead silence on the other side. The voice, small
again, asked, "What?"
        "I cannot grant absolution," the priest said quietly. "That you must do for
yourself first."
        "Forgive myself?" the voice asked incredulously.
        "I know it sounds heretical, but even God cannot forgive a man who is not
willing to forgive himself," the priest said. "Go, with my blessing and my
sympathy."
        The figure stood up. The voice was strong and sure, for the first time the
man had walked into the confessional. "Thank you, Father. If I had a soul, I
would pray for help."
        Then like smoke, he was gone.
        And Father Boyd put his head in his hands and cried.
 END