The night Mr. Daphne met his end was the same night the ancient almond tree that overlooked Saint Dominic's Parish Church was struck by lightning. Only one person saw both the flash that split the tree down the middle and Mr. Daphne struck dead, and that was Jeremy Fields. He was also one of two people who understood the irony of the morning after Mr. Daphne's death, for he saw what no one else was looking for, and only Father Abel listened to tramps like Jeremy.
The day of his death, Mr. Daphne renewed his campaign to save the church. From under the forsythia bushes Jeremy awakened to the clip-clop of dress shoes on the stone walk; he rolled over muttering to himself about grass and flowers just in time to ignore what came next. "I said, this is no place to sleep. Go on. There's a place for you down the road. Go on." Mr. Daphne, his slick face growing pale and then flushing pink, whispered further threats to the bushes before he turned abruptly in order to catch Father Abel and his penitent.
The dress shoes Mr. Daphne wore pinched his toes, which caused him to wince as he hurried. He raised his right arm and waved the papers he held to get the priest's attention. "Father! Father -- you need to see this," he said.
Father Abel, who was old, but fairly youthful for a priest of his experience, lowered his voice when he realized Mr. Daphne was approaching. His hands remained clasped behind him, and his eyes still searched the limestone path, but his mind was with Vera. "You've done the right thing; continue to pray -- and you're right, there is time." Finally, he paused, knowing his assistant was near. "I'll visit this evening. Godspeed." He smiled at the young woman.
"Thank you," she whispered and then retreated, her feet making little swishing sounds on the lawn. Father Abel thought the turf under her shoes could have mistaken her for a doe.
"I've been looking for you everywhere. And I waited at your office for an hour."
Father Abel watched Vera disappear behind the holly hedge, the idea of her light step lingering. He sighed and wiped his eyes, his mind now imagining what awaited her. Before acknowledging Mr. Daphne, he prayed for her silently.
"Father?"
"Mr. Daphne."
"I wanted you to see what I've put together."
The priest waited; his index finger tapped behind his back, but only once, and he yet looked after Vera.
Mr. Daphne cleared his throat and shifted his feet, which were feeling the pinch just then. "Ah, attendance. For the last three months."
"Yes?" Father Abel smiled at him.
"Yes. It's down."
"Down. Attendance is down." Thoughtful brows replaced the smile. He looked toward the front of the church. "The forsythia will bloom in the next few days, did you know that? Even though there's a chill in the air."
"What?" Mr. Daphne glanced toward the bushes, his frustration growing. "Father -- "
"I saw you checking them. Did you want to add gardening to your duties?" And he placed a hand on his man's shoulder. "Mark, do you know who is not attending?"
The question shocked Mr. Daphne, who had stopped thinking of attendance and was bracing himself for a rebuke. "Who?"
"Yes. Who."
Several moments passed in which the two big toes in Mr. Daphne's shoes seemed to cry out, but he made no sound, nor could he think of an answer.
"Well." Father Abel walked toward the church; he stopped and turned back just a few feet away and said, "I'm putting tea on."
Mr. Daphne watched as the priest made a second stop, this time at the forsythias, before entering the church. The papers in his hand rustled, and he looked at them. He would take the long way around, he decided, and he began to march toward the rear doors.
Only one room was bigger than the sanctuary of the old church building, and that was the kitchen. It was more like a cave than a room; rounded ceilings and rough uneven floors that rose and fell at the will of time surrounded an enormous fireplace, which, at the moment, contained a newly lit fire. On the far side of the main entrance a table and chairs had been gathered in a corner. Father Abel sat in one of the chairs and watched the kettle begin to steam. He wondered who would find him there first.
When he heard footsteps in the hall, he knew he'd been right. He sighed and said to himself, "Mr. Daphne will need to work on his temper." Then he smiled at his hands and waited for Jeremy to come in and sit by him.
The kettle sang. Father Abel let it work itself up while he readied some mugs, three of them. It wasn't until his back was turned to the door and he was pouring the hot water into the teapot that he heard Jeremy step into the kitchen. He waited. He watched the water and tea mix. The colors swirl. He closed his eyes and breathed in.
A tired voice beside him asked, "May I, Father?"
"Yes, Jeremy, of course." For a moment Father Abel's mind drifted to Vera; he sighed again as he thought of her husband, too, and the way he spoke to her the last time he visited. "Tea?"
"Please."
And soon the two of them sipped tea without a word. In fact, neither man said anything until Mr. Daphne stood just outside the door several minutes later. Jeremy looked at Father Abel and said, "Am I my brother's keeper?"
This was too much for Mr. Daphne. He leaned against the wall, out of sight, and knew what they looked like, sitting there in the dim light. The aging priest's hands were probably shaking, his weak mouth quivering at the baggage who sat across from him -- and this one! He still wore dirt in his hair and smelled like sewage. And yet the old man listened.
"Parrot." Mr. Daphne hadn't meant to speak, and he held his hand over his mouth until he was sure he hadn't been heard. The one-sided conversation went on. For another moment he stood there, but soon he sat in his own office and allowed thought after thought to rush over him -- how he would be rid of them both, how he would go on to the city, how this was indeed a dying parish. And he paced with his fingers at his hot temples, his breath coming and going in violent bursts.
This persisted until the sun began to set. It was when the light shifted on Mr. Daphne's desk, which held stacks of papers, that he paused. His eye had caught Jeremy standing by the almond tree alone. He walked to the window and grabbed the wooden ledge. "What does he think he sees?" He asked no one but his inner self -- who knew the answer was nothing. Then he did something he hadn't done since his school days: When he was a child he used to stand in the washroom and imagine his enemies in front of him, and then he would swing his arms at their ears and pull down their imaginary pants. It was satisfying. Even now he felt better. "Yes," he said, "I'll show him."
Jeremy didn't notice Mr. Daphne until it was too late. He'd had his eyes closed against the sun, and orange light had spread over them. When he turned at the sound of footsteps, he almost ran -- but something made his feet feel like stones just before the moment of his escape. He was pondering this when Mr. Daphne said, "What in Heaven's name do you think you're doing?"
There was no answer to this, of course, so Jeremy said nothing.
"No word for me, then? No parrot-wisdom?" He was working his anger around in his mouth, and this tasted good. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Oh, silence then? What, too many words for the old man? Did the moist corners of his eyes pull the words right from you? And where is he now? Didn't the two of you have enough tea? No!" He threw up his hands and came close to Jeremy, closer than he'd ever been. "He's sitting now, I can see him, having a biscuit with that Vera, that --"
But his insult never came, for Jeremy hit Mr. Daphne in the face so that he fell at his feet.
A whimper floated on the air. Mr. Daphne lay in a heap, shocked and afraid Jeremy might continue to hit him. Yet, if he'd opened his eyes, he'd have seen that fear and shock gripped Jeremy, too, for he slipped away -- and all the while he rubbed the fingers that had struck another man.
"Jeremy -- " Mr. Daphne lifted his left arm over his head, words of contrition on his lips. When he found himself alone, however, the inner self puffed the words away, and a smile curled over his stinging mouth. "Well," he said, and rose to his feet. Over his head the almond tree waved in what was now a sort of half-light; its branches, though bare, hummed with sap and tightly wrapped buds filled so that they resembled fuzzy teardrops. Mr. Daphne, however, thought only of where he would find Father Abel: "This, then, is enough to clear the rabble." And he walked toward Vera's house, all the while stroking his cheek.
Jeremy returned to the almond tree. He leaned on the trunk with his forehead, both his hands hanging at its sides. Light died all around him. Soon he lifted his head to see the stars, but instead saw the branches moving on the wind. "I see an almond branch," he said, and he heard the rush of sap. Behind him, behind the church and high above it, an electric storm gathered strength. Before Jeremy heard it, he felt the change in pressure; he turned and saw the blue flashes that moved back and forth across the sky. He pushed himself away from the tree, the fingers of his hand remaining on the trunk until the last possible second. The forsythia bush played in the wind, and when he'd settled under it, it increased its wild dance. Lightning cast shadows of the church here and there; rain came, and Jeremy slept.
Mr. Daphne arrived at Vera's house as the storm raised its head. The walk was longer than he'd remembered and full of broken rock that he stubbed his toes on more than once, and the victory he had imagined now seemed infantile. He stood at the garden gate and looked for any sign of Father Abel; he would not enter unless the priest was there.
With a sudden burst, the door of the house opened, and Father Abel rushed out toward Mr. Daphne. "Mr. Daphne! Here. Come here. I'm glad you've come. No, no time for that --" Mr. Daphne closed his mouth. "There, come inside the gate. Right, now inside." The two men walked through an entryway into a sitting room. A bed had replaced the normal furniture, and on it lay a man writhing and cursing. "Here, take this." Father Abel held out a large bowl. "Water's heating on the stove. When it boils, wash these, well, wash them well so they steam, and bring them back. Go."
Mr. Daphne stood for a moment and looked at the man on the bed. The bedsheets stuck to his body and in many places were stained, mostly a dark brown. His teeth gritted and his eyes bloodshot, he spent his anger on Father Abel in a whisper that stunned Mr. Daphne. For a moment all three men went perfectly still, until Father Abel stooped to mop the dying man's brow. "Mr. Daphne, disregard what you've heard; the water is on the stove."
"Here, this way." The words spoken at his elbow startled Mr. Daphne, and he turned to see Vera showing the way to the kitchen, one hand on the door, the other holding a towel at her thigh. When Mr. Daphne passed, she murmured, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Mr. Daphne blinked hard and wanted his words back. "Ah --"
"Mr. Daphne," she said, and she looked at him. Her face calmed him. "I took the water off; it's very hot." She let the door close behind her, but he could still hear her husband in the sitting room.
He finally looked in the bowl. All he saw was blood, remnants of twisted rags knotted together like writhing worms, and blood. He set it down and backed away, his hand to his face. His breathing sped up, and his only desire was to run, anywhere, to run anywhere but here.
And then a wail shook him; first, the window panes rattled at the cry, and then it shook Mr. Daphne. He closed his eyes -- screwed them closed so no light came into them; beads of sweat broke out along the back of his neck and he shivered. A moment later he found himself standing over the bowl. He put his hands on the sides and lifted it. Chills ran up his back. He began to pour the blood into the sink when he heard a new sound: Vera. She wept. The thought of the wail and now the sound of her weeping made Mr. Daphne set the bowl down too quickly, and its contents swept up and over the edge, spilling onto his shirt and splashing onto his shoes.
Panic rose slowly in Mr. Daphne. He held his hands out in front of him as though afraid to touch himself. When the wet soaked through the shirt and stuck to his skin, he was backing through the kitchen door, and then he ran, out of the house, out of the garden.
Vera hadn't noticed, but Father Abel saw it all. He sighed and looked back to the new widow who continued to sob. Rumblings of thunder came closer, and through the night he would sit with her, even as the storm raged.
As for Mr. Daphne, he ran blindly -- first into the humid air, then through a downpour. Many times he slipped and fell, and his knee split open on a rock. Somehow he found his way back to the front of the church. His senses were afire, his clothes torn, and he squinted into the forsythia bushes. "Even now you won't go away! Go!" He screamed and shook his fist. Almost at the same moment, a new flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating Mr. Daphne's straining face as it struck the almond tree.
Mr. Daphne laughed at the sight. He wiped the rain away from his brow and laughed again at the thought of the tree having to be removed. He reserved a special kind of hate for the gnarled tree, a kind that had grown every time he saw it, a kind that blossomed now into a bloody fullness. "You see?" He spoke toward the forsythia. "Now what will you look to in the mornings? What will you mutter over and care for? All of those branches will be cleared away. Do you hear?" His voice rose to a scream once more. "All those branches will be gone -- struck from heaven to be seen no more!"
Jeremy heard Mr. Daphne; he heard him, but his voice seemed far away -- like someone speaking through a tomato can connected to a string. He was on one end, not really holding the can to his ear, and Mr. Daphne was on the other, pulling the string taut, yelling into his own can. This small image of the two of them made Jeremy smile even as the rain dripped off the eaves above him onto his shoulders and neck; it fell and splashed mud everywhere, but Jeremy smiled anyway. There was something he needed to say to Mr. Daphne. Yes. He needed to say it to him now. He opened his mouth to relay the message, but when he looked up, Mr. Daphne was gone. Jeremy sat up. Through the slanting rain, he watched Mr. Daphne walk toward the shattered almond tree. "No!" He jumped from the bushes and ran. "No!" He yelled after Mr. Daphne again and again, but he slipped and fell. From where he lay, he saw Mr. Daphne reach the tree and bend over next to the trunk. A gust of wind blew straight down on a severed branch; it fell on Mr. Daphne, hitting him on the back of the head.
Until morning Jeremy lay there. He did not sleep, but only thought of himself standing in a treehouse trying in vain to be heard through the can-and-string he imagined was now in his hand. The other end was slack, and the string carried no sound. But he spoke and yelled through it anyway -- until his voice was ragged and reduced to nothing, he yelled and yelled.
Sunday morning. Father Abel, weary from a sleepless night, prepared to greet his parishioners. They would ask about Vera and her husband. Some would cry for her; some would go to her home immediately. And he was right about many of the men and women who came first.
A little later, a woman who hadn't heard Vera's news asked, "Did you see the almond tree this morning, Father?"
"No, I haven't."
The rest of the morning swept by until the reading from the Old Testament.
Father Abel cleared his throat and said, "The Scripture reading for today comes from Jeremiah 1:11-12." His hands had to be steaded, for they shook. The sanctuary was hushed. The almond tree. He read with a keen sense of expectation: "The word of the LORD came to me: 'What do you see, Jeremiah?' 'I see the branch of an almond tree,' I replied. The LORD said to me, 'You have seen correctly, for I am watching to see that my word is fulfilled.' "
When the verses had been read, a loud voice from the back lifted up and said, "The word of the Lord -- thanks be to God!" Father Abel looked up and saw Jeremy walking toward him down the center aisle. All the congregation turned to see, some gasped, a few merely smiled. Father Abel realized he was waiting for someone to stop him; he took his eyes away from Jeremy and looked for Mr. Daphne. He would stop him. Yet Jeremy continued unopposed until he stood face to face with Father Abel.
"Good morning, Jeremy."
Jeremy's hand explored his own mouth, and just as Father Abel was about to ask him what he needed, he said in a whisper, "Cry out."
"What?"
" 'A voice says, Cry out.' "
Father Abel knew Jeremy. And he knew this one, too. "What shall I cry?"
" 'All men are like grass.' " Then he asked, "May I?"
And Father Abel saw in Jeremy's eyes a clearness that seemed to him the clearness of a winter sky. "Yes, Jeremy, of course."
Jeremy turned and said to the whole congregation, "The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever." And then he whispered to Father Abel: "Mr. Daphne is dead. Last night I saw his head cracked open by a falling branch."
Later, when Father Abel and Jeremy were alone, they went to see what was left of the almond tree. And there, growing from the torn trunk, a crown of branchlets had lifted their green heads to the bright morning sun.
The day of his death, Mr. Daphne renewed his campaign to save the church. From under the forsythia bushes Jeremy awakened to the clip-clop of dress shoes on the stone walk; he rolled over muttering to himself about grass and flowers just in time to ignore what came next. "I said, this is no place to sleep. Go on. There's a place for you down the road. Go on." Mr. Daphne, his slick face growing pale and then flushing pink, whispered further threats to the bushes before he turned abruptly in order to catch Father Abel and his penitent.
The dress shoes Mr. Daphne wore pinched his toes, which caused him to wince as he hurried. He raised his right arm and waved the papers he held to get the priest's attention. "Father! Father -- you need to see this," he said.
Father Abel, who was old, but fairly youthful for a priest of his experience, lowered his voice when he realized Mr. Daphne was approaching. His hands remained clasped behind him, and his eyes still searched the limestone path, but his mind was with Vera. "You've done the right thing; continue to pray -- and you're right, there is time." Finally, he paused, knowing his assistant was near. "I'll visit this evening. Godspeed." He smiled at the young woman.
"Thank you," she whispered and then retreated, her feet making little swishing sounds on the lawn. Father Abel thought the turf under her shoes could have mistaken her for a doe.
"I've been looking for you everywhere. And I waited at your office for an hour."
Father Abel watched Vera disappear behind the holly hedge, the idea of her light step lingering. He sighed and wiped his eyes, his mind now imagining what awaited her. Before acknowledging Mr. Daphne, he prayed for her silently.
"Father?"
"Mr. Daphne."
"I wanted you to see what I've put together."
The priest waited; his index finger tapped behind his back, but only once, and he yet looked after Vera.
Mr. Daphne cleared his throat and shifted his feet, which were feeling the pinch just then. "Ah, attendance. For the last three months."
"Yes?" Father Abel smiled at him.
"Yes. It's down."
"Down. Attendance is down." Thoughtful brows replaced the smile. He looked toward the front of the church. "The forsythia will bloom in the next few days, did you know that? Even though there's a chill in the air."
"What?" Mr. Daphne glanced toward the bushes, his frustration growing. "Father -- "
"I saw you checking them. Did you want to add gardening to your duties?" And he placed a hand on his man's shoulder. "Mark, do you know who is not attending?"
The question shocked Mr. Daphne, who had stopped thinking of attendance and was bracing himself for a rebuke. "Who?"
"Yes. Who."
Several moments passed in which the two big toes in Mr. Daphne's shoes seemed to cry out, but he made no sound, nor could he think of an answer.
"Well." Father Abel walked toward the church; he stopped and turned back just a few feet away and said, "I'm putting tea on."
Mr. Daphne watched as the priest made a second stop, this time at the forsythias, before entering the church. The papers in his hand rustled, and he looked at them. He would take the long way around, he decided, and he began to march toward the rear doors.
Only one room was bigger than the sanctuary of the old church building, and that was the kitchen. It was more like a cave than a room; rounded ceilings and rough uneven floors that rose and fell at the will of time surrounded an enormous fireplace, which, at the moment, contained a newly lit fire. On the far side of the main entrance a table and chairs had been gathered in a corner. Father Abel sat in one of the chairs and watched the kettle begin to steam. He wondered who would find him there first.
When he heard footsteps in the hall, he knew he'd been right. He sighed and said to himself, "Mr. Daphne will need to work on his temper." Then he smiled at his hands and waited for Jeremy to come in and sit by him.
The kettle sang. Father Abel let it work itself up while he readied some mugs, three of them. It wasn't until his back was turned to the door and he was pouring the hot water into the teapot that he heard Jeremy step into the kitchen. He waited. He watched the water and tea mix. The colors swirl. He closed his eyes and breathed in.
A tired voice beside him asked, "May I, Father?"
"Yes, Jeremy, of course." For a moment Father Abel's mind drifted to Vera; he sighed again as he thought of her husband, too, and the way he spoke to her the last time he visited. "Tea?"
"Please."
And soon the two of them sipped tea without a word. In fact, neither man said anything until Mr. Daphne stood just outside the door several minutes later. Jeremy looked at Father Abel and said, "Am I my brother's keeper?"
This was too much for Mr. Daphne. He leaned against the wall, out of sight, and knew what they looked like, sitting there in the dim light. The aging priest's hands were probably shaking, his weak mouth quivering at the baggage who sat across from him -- and this one! He still wore dirt in his hair and smelled like sewage. And yet the old man listened.
"Parrot." Mr. Daphne hadn't meant to speak, and he held his hand over his mouth until he was sure he hadn't been heard. The one-sided conversation went on. For another moment he stood there, but soon he sat in his own office and allowed thought after thought to rush over him -- how he would be rid of them both, how he would go on to the city, how this was indeed a dying parish. And he paced with his fingers at his hot temples, his breath coming and going in violent bursts.
This persisted until the sun began to set. It was when the light shifted on Mr. Daphne's desk, which held stacks of papers, that he paused. His eye had caught Jeremy standing by the almond tree alone. He walked to the window and grabbed the wooden ledge. "What does he think he sees?" He asked no one but his inner self -- who knew the answer was nothing. Then he did something he hadn't done since his school days: When he was a child he used to stand in the washroom and imagine his enemies in front of him, and then he would swing his arms at their ears and pull down their imaginary pants. It was satisfying. Even now he felt better. "Yes," he said, "I'll show him."
Jeremy didn't notice Mr. Daphne until it was too late. He'd had his eyes closed against the sun, and orange light had spread over them. When he turned at the sound of footsteps, he almost ran -- but something made his feet feel like stones just before the moment of his escape. He was pondering this when Mr. Daphne said, "What in Heaven's name do you think you're doing?"
There was no answer to this, of course, so Jeremy said nothing.
"No word for me, then? No parrot-wisdom?" He was working his anger around in his mouth, and this tasted good. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Oh, silence then? What, too many words for the old man? Did the moist corners of his eyes pull the words right from you? And where is he now? Didn't the two of you have enough tea? No!" He threw up his hands and came close to Jeremy, closer than he'd ever been. "He's sitting now, I can see him, having a biscuit with that Vera, that --"
But his insult never came, for Jeremy hit Mr. Daphne in the face so that he fell at his feet.
A whimper floated on the air. Mr. Daphne lay in a heap, shocked and afraid Jeremy might continue to hit him. Yet, if he'd opened his eyes, he'd have seen that fear and shock gripped Jeremy, too, for he slipped away -- and all the while he rubbed the fingers that had struck another man.
"Jeremy -- " Mr. Daphne lifted his left arm over his head, words of contrition on his lips. When he found himself alone, however, the inner self puffed the words away, and a smile curled over his stinging mouth. "Well," he said, and rose to his feet. Over his head the almond tree waved in what was now a sort of half-light; its branches, though bare, hummed with sap and tightly wrapped buds filled so that they resembled fuzzy teardrops. Mr. Daphne, however, thought only of where he would find Father Abel: "This, then, is enough to clear the rabble." And he walked toward Vera's house, all the while stroking his cheek.
Jeremy returned to the almond tree. He leaned on the trunk with his forehead, both his hands hanging at its sides. Light died all around him. Soon he lifted his head to see the stars, but instead saw the branches moving on the wind. "I see an almond branch," he said, and he heard the rush of sap. Behind him, behind the church and high above it, an electric storm gathered strength. Before Jeremy heard it, he felt the change in pressure; he turned and saw the blue flashes that moved back and forth across the sky. He pushed himself away from the tree, the fingers of his hand remaining on the trunk until the last possible second. The forsythia bush played in the wind, and when he'd settled under it, it increased its wild dance. Lightning cast shadows of the church here and there; rain came, and Jeremy slept.
Mr. Daphne arrived at Vera's house as the storm raised its head. The walk was longer than he'd remembered and full of broken rock that he stubbed his toes on more than once, and the victory he had imagined now seemed infantile. He stood at the garden gate and looked for any sign of Father Abel; he would not enter unless the priest was there.
With a sudden burst, the door of the house opened, and Father Abel rushed out toward Mr. Daphne. "Mr. Daphne! Here. Come here. I'm glad you've come. No, no time for that --" Mr. Daphne closed his mouth. "There, come inside the gate. Right, now inside." The two men walked through an entryway into a sitting room. A bed had replaced the normal furniture, and on it lay a man writhing and cursing. "Here, take this." Father Abel held out a large bowl. "Water's heating on the stove. When it boils, wash these, well, wash them well so they steam, and bring them back. Go."
Mr. Daphne stood for a moment and looked at the man on the bed. The bedsheets stuck to his body and in many places were stained, mostly a dark brown. His teeth gritted and his eyes bloodshot, he spent his anger on Father Abel in a whisper that stunned Mr. Daphne. For a moment all three men went perfectly still, until Father Abel stooped to mop the dying man's brow. "Mr. Daphne, disregard what you've heard; the water is on the stove."
"Here, this way." The words spoken at his elbow startled Mr. Daphne, and he turned to see Vera showing the way to the kitchen, one hand on the door, the other holding a towel at her thigh. When Mr. Daphne passed, she murmured, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Mr. Daphne blinked hard and wanted his words back. "Ah --"
"Mr. Daphne," she said, and she looked at him. Her face calmed him. "I took the water off; it's very hot." She let the door close behind her, but he could still hear her husband in the sitting room.
He finally looked in the bowl. All he saw was blood, remnants of twisted rags knotted together like writhing worms, and blood. He set it down and backed away, his hand to his face. His breathing sped up, and his only desire was to run, anywhere, to run anywhere but here.
And then a wail shook him; first, the window panes rattled at the cry, and then it shook Mr. Daphne. He closed his eyes -- screwed them closed so no light came into them; beads of sweat broke out along the back of his neck and he shivered. A moment later he found himself standing over the bowl. He put his hands on the sides and lifted it. Chills ran up his back. He began to pour the blood into the sink when he heard a new sound: Vera. She wept. The thought of the wail and now the sound of her weeping made Mr. Daphne set the bowl down too quickly, and its contents swept up and over the edge, spilling onto his shirt and splashing onto his shoes.
Panic rose slowly in Mr. Daphne. He held his hands out in front of him as though afraid to touch himself. When the wet soaked through the shirt and stuck to his skin, he was backing through the kitchen door, and then he ran, out of the house, out of the garden.
Vera hadn't noticed, but Father Abel saw it all. He sighed and looked back to the new widow who continued to sob. Rumblings of thunder came closer, and through the night he would sit with her, even as the storm raged.
As for Mr. Daphne, he ran blindly -- first into the humid air, then through a downpour. Many times he slipped and fell, and his knee split open on a rock. Somehow he found his way back to the front of the church. His senses were afire, his clothes torn, and he squinted into the forsythia bushes. "Even now you won't go away! Go!" He screamed and shook his fist. Almost at the same moment, a new flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating Mr. Daphne's straining face as it struck the almond tree.
Mr. Daphne laughed at the sight. He wiped the rain away from his brow and laughed again at the thought of the tree having to be removed. He reserved a special kind of hate for the gnarled tree, a kind that had grown every time he saw it, a kind that blossomed now into a bloody fullness. "You see?" He spoke toward the forsythia. "Now what will you look to in the mornings? What will you mutter over and care for? All of those branches will be cleared away. Do you hear?" His voice rose to a scream once more. "All those branches will be gone -- struck from heaven to be seen no more!"
Jeremy heard Mr. Daphne; he heard him, but his voice seemed far away -- like someone speaking through a tomato can connected to a string. He was on one end, not really holding the can to his ear, and Mr. Daphne was on the other, pulling the string taut, yelling into his own can. This small image of the two of them made Jeremy smile even as the rain dripped off the eaves above him onto his shoulders and neck; it fell and splashed mud everywhere, but Jeremy smiled anyway. There was something he needed to say to Mr. Daphne. Yes. He needed to say it to him now. He opened his mouth to relay the message, but when he looked up, Mr. Daphne was gone. Jeremy sat up. Through the slanting rain, he watched Mr. Daphne walk toward the shattered almond tree. "No!" He jumped from the bushes and ran. "No!" He yelled after Mr. Daphne again and again, but he slipped and fell. From where he lay, he saw Mr. Daphne reach the tree and bend over next to the trunk. A gust of wind blew straight down on a severed branch; it fell on Mr. Daphne, hitting him on the back of the head.
Until morning Jeremy lay there. He did not sleep, but only thought of himself standing in a treehouse trying in vain to be heard through the can-and-string he imagined was now in his hand. The other end was slack, and the string carried no sound. But he spoke and yelled through it anyway -- until his voice was ragged and reduced to nothing, he yelled and yelled.
***
Sunday morning. Father Abel, weary from a sleepless night, prepared to greet his parishioners. They would ask about Vera and her husband. Some would cry for her; some would go to her home immediately. And he was right about many of the men and women who came first.
A little later, a woman who hadn't heard Vera's news asked, "Did you see the almond tree this morning, Father?"
"No, I haven't."
The rest of the morning swept by until the reading from the Old Testament.
Father Abel cleared his throat and said, "The Scripture reading for today comes from Jeremiah 1:11-12." His hands had to be steaded, for they shook. The sanctuary was hushed. The almond tree. He read with a keen sense of expectation: "The word of the LORD came to me: 'What do you see, Jeremiah?' 'I see the branch of an almond tree,' I replied. The LORD said to me, 'You have seen correctly, for I am watching to see that my word is fulfilled.' "
When the verses had been read, a loud voice from the back lifted up and said, "The word of the Lord -- thanks be to God!" Father Abel looked up and saw Jeremy walking toward him down the center aisle. All the congregation turned to see, some gasped, a few merely smiled. Father Abel realized he was waiting for someone to stop him; he took his eyes away from Jeremy and looked for Mr. Daphne. He would stop him. Yet Jeremy continued unopposed until he stood face to face with Father Abel.
"Good morning, Jeremy."
Jeremy's hand explored his own mouth, and just as Father Abel was about to ask him what he needed, he said in a whisper, "Cry out."
"What?"
" 'A voice says, Cry out.' "
Father Abel knew Jeremy. And he knew this one, too. "What shall I cry?"
" 'All men are like grass.' " Then he asked, "May I?"
And Father Abel saw in Jeremy's eyes a clearness that seemed to him the clearness of a winter sky. "Yes, Jeremy, of course."
Jeremy turned and said to the whole congregation, "The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever." And then he whispered to Father Abel: "Mr. Daphne is dead. Last night I saw his head cracked open by a falling branch."
Later, when Father Abel and Jeremy were alone, they went to see what was left of the almond tree. And there, growing from the torn trunk, a crown of branchlets had lifted their green heads to the bright morning sun.
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