The Delay of the Parousia

By danielsimpson

In the turbulent times of the Sixties, a young boy adopted to North America from India settles with his adopted family in a rustic fishing village of Aquilon. His plans are to get along with new friends, but events take a turn when Felix brother dies in a boating accident and Aryl's former adoptive father comes looking for him. Guided by the parish priest Father Brenwitz (who has a medical problem from a tumor on his brain) Aryl discovers his interests are much the same as the interests of everyone else. Aryl's concerns for his new found friends helps him to climb the steep ascent to an enlightened view of the world he lives in now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sheldon McNaughton
• Release date: Sep 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9780993937323

danielsimpson

I am a writer of twenty five years. I graduated from university with a writing degree. I have appeared in the op-ed columns of the London Free Press, and I currently work in a law office. I have a writer father: J f Simpson. I am married to the same woman of my youth and we have one son. My books have had limited success in my local market but one day I hope they will gain international recognition. I hope I can do this in my lifetime.

Book preview

D a n i e l S i m p s o n

The Delay of the

Parousia

A Novel

I have coined the term ‘The Delay of the Parousia’ for the title of this book after the Christian premise that the Second Coming of Christ is a relevant current event, for once and forever, always occurring at the Zenith of human affairs. This novel does not intend to imply any religious doctrine or even dogma, by its adoption.

Simply put, the characters of this novel embody sufficient representations of human endeavour - within the context of divine history - so as to hopefully allow one to see an ideal world taking shape at that Zenith.

Daniel Simpson © 2012

The characters, names, events, and locales described in this book of fiction are produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any real persons or places is a matter of pure coincidence.

ISBN 978-0-9939373-2-3

Who have said, With our tongue

will we prevail; our lips are our own:

who is lord over us?

Psalm 12 v. 4

This beareth the fire towards the moon; this is

the mover in the hearts of things that die; this

doth draw the earth together and unite it.

Dante. Paradiso. Canto 1. lines 115-118.

Turn to the empyrean wheels of time

where one seeks to find

and leaves imagination far behind.

For my family and friends

Prologue

Father Brenwitz did not share his headache with anyone this Sunday, May 12 1969. He nonetheless felt he did share a vague assurance with his congregation, this morning, that something out of the ordinary would happen before the day was out. Something he would have no control over.

His speech slurred slightly as he directed the altar boys to their positions in front of him, and in his head a humming sound emerged like the drone of hornets, first loud then quiet.

The fog of morning had settled out to sea. The whirligig from the lighthouse still cast its light out onto the Aquilon harbour basin, but the dull noise from its great horn had ceased in the early dawn.

Most of the congregants had gathered in the church from this little French village that dwelled away from the bustle of the large cities to the south.

The sun had been out for nearly four hours and the open doors to the cathedral offered no relief from the heat of the summer morning.

In a mist of smoke and incense, the procession of altar boys started to move towards the sanctuary floor slowly preceded by the priest. Father Brenwitz who was almost sixty five, stood before the altar, knelt, stood up again, then kissed its surface. He looked towards the congregation.

Muffled sounds interspersed with coos from little children awoke the self-awareness of the priest. His words echoed his thoughts and radiated with a kind of light that flooded from within. He spoke with a slight quiver in his voice.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

His movements while intent and sanctified did not suggest that his head throbbed like it had never before. As he continued to incense the altar, he felt he carried the weight of his skull on his shoulders like a sack of white hot irons. He was only dimly aware of the stained glass windows through which a faint colored emanation caressed the walls and the Stations of the Cross. He saw it from the corner of his eye, now fixed and bright now fading and luminescent. He shook off the vision.

"Introibo ad altare Dei ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam." He cleared his throat and realized what he said.

Alarmed, he quickly reverted to the French version of the Mass and continued to lead with the Confiteor.

I confess to Almighty God, to the Blessed Virgin, and to you my Brothers and Sisters...

"Quia Peccavi Nimis Cogitone, Verbo et Opere..."

He heard his voice resume in the language of the lost language of the Mass although he had no idea where it emanated from. His intention to perform the mass in French failed and the Latin resumed.

Kyrie Eleison... Christe Eleison, he pleaded as he waited to hear the rejoinder from the congregation. A few elderly persons quietly whispered the Latin.

He paused silently, clenched his teeth and looked to the front of the church. Father Brenwitz still felt in control of what he was doing in the Mass. Although he had begun the mass in French, the Gloria, the Gospel, the Epistle and the Homily revealed a variety of languages both extant and dead - none understood by any one in the congregation. The priest grappled with the Gospel of Matthew in hopeful apprehension that the congregation was not lost. His anxiety was great and he prayed to himself thoughtlessly, earnestly that he would complete the Mass. But something was wrong - with him. With his words.

‘Amen, I say to you, there hath not risen among them that are born of women a greater than John the Baptist: yet he that is the lesser in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.’

Some in the congregation thought it was odd that the priest switched from one language to the next, but most accepted the combination of Languages from the old priest without expressing the least concern. Father Brenwitz gathered his confidence steadily - the light behind his eyes glowed like a beacon of his faith in God and the perfection of the mass.

The moment of the consecration of the Eucharist the people knew that something was truly the matter with the priest.

He held the Host up in his wavering hands

"Hoc Est Enim Corpus Meum."

This Is My Body.

He lifted the cup unsteadily.

"His Est Enim Calix Sanguis Mei,"

"Novi Et Aeterni Testatmenti."

This is the Chalice Of My Blood, The Blood of the New and Everlasting Testament:

"Mysterium Fidei: Qui Pro Vobis Et Pro Multis Effundetur In Remissionem Peccatorum."

This Is the Mystery of Faith: Which For You And For Many Will be Shed For The Remission Of Sins.

Father Brenwitz raised the Host and the cup then he dropped to the sanctuary floor where he could not move. He could feel the broken sacrifice in his hands. He heard its sound as it dropped to the ground. Gripped with pain his body refused to move. The cup careened and bounced tinkling, rebounding until it came to rest. A rush of wind issued from the congregation - a living breath without words, without voice.

Even though it took some astute observers a moment to recognize what had happened, some concerned elders of the church had already made their way to the steps of the sanctuary. They shattered the strains of the now silent pall that fell upon the church.

A whisper circulated through the madding crowd. ‘The priest is dead. No one can enter the holy place’. But he was alive and made immobile by the light and wrenching violent pain in his head. He did not know if he had vomited. His body was paralyzed.

The altar boys crowded around the ailing priest. He felt fully conscious, but in his physical state he only managed to mouth the words; so that, they could hear: ‘It will pass’.

Young Dedie, one of the altar servers who rarely made it to church came back with a patina and stirred the air about his face but it did not rekindle any movement from the priest.

It was Martin Therieau who acted without thought. He ran outside to his car. He could hear the sound of his breath as he drove to Doctor Banks. The doctor did not live far. He returned with him within a few minutes. Still no one dared near the priest. Martin rushed up to the sanctuary with the doctor not far behind. He made the sign of the cross over the priest who remained unconscious until Doctor Banks waved an ammonia ampoule in front of his face. The priest awoke and swooned on the sanctuary floor. Doctor Banks moved quickly and stealthily avoiding the concerned looks of the men and women who stood at the rail by the sanctuary and dared not approach the priest. He told the boys to get water and towels then he checked the priest’s pulse, looked into his eyes and asked him a few questions. Father Brenwitz came to slowly.

His head was light. He felt consecrated again. He rose unsteadily to his feet with the doctor’s help.

How do you feel, Father? the doctor asked as he assisted him to the Priest’s chair.

I'm fine, Doctor Banks. The light is fading as we speak. I think we can carry on with the Mass.

Doctor Banks looked quizzically at the priest. The light?

I'm an old man, Doctor. Please. he shook off the question.

The doctor stood up and put his hands in the air in a gesture to address the apprehensive congregation.

I’m sorry the mass is cancelled for today, Father. Ladies and Gentleman. The mass will have to be finished at another time. I’m sorry but Father will not be able to finish the mass today. He looked down at his patient. What do you mean by the light?

The priest nodded to himself and made the sign of the cross.

Doctor Banks knew he would not get a straight answer on the subject so he pressed Father Brenwitz with his arm to the front pews where he sat down beside him.

How's your head? he shined a flashlight into his eyes one at a time.

Very sore. I had a migraine this morning.

How long have you been getting migraines?

Ever since I was a child.

I'm going to order some tests. You'll not be able to finish mass today Father. I want you to return to the rectory and rest. I'll be over to administer the tests myself and I'll send them away for the results. You'll have to be patient.

I am a model patient Doctor. A model patient.

*

Chapter One

Victor Chaisson pulled on the door to the old house and leaned outside to survey the landscape. He could see the vernal covered mountains clearly. The ocean was an aqua marine blue today. It seemed different every day. Small wavelets in the distance capped the surface with white ridges of foam. The shore was calm. A hummingbird swooped past the pear orchard to the treeless bog below the cottage. Its wings made a buzzing sound. Victor muttered something in French to his father Raymond inside and waited, while a sleek silver Cadillac rolled to a stop in the driveway to the solitary house on the beach road.

Victor still retained some of the charm and grace of a man who had walked at one time in the Light. But he had fallen on hard times. His physical aplomb had dwindled with the ravages of his disease so that no longer could one discern his unique character from his appearance. He was dressed in old clothes. Clothes, Raymond who was now almost eighty, had passed along to him.

His father leaned back on the chaisse longue in the living room and nodded sleepily. Who's dere, Victor? he said in English.

It's Judge Anderson, Victor replied.

Raymond had looked after Victor all his life. And now to complicate things, Victor's diabetes was getting worse. Victor had grown a beard to hide the scabs that broke the surface of the skin on his face. He kept it scraggly and unkempt. His long hair did not suit his face that had widened with his forty some years of age.

He continued to talk with his father with excitement. Raymond made a mental note that his son showed less abandonment to rational absurdity when he was in the company of Sam. Raymond loved his son and believed he understood him.

Judge Samuel Anderson hailed Victor from the car. Sam was a silver haired, unnaturally tall but slim man. He had retired from the bench this past winter at sixty-two.

He wore long pants and a vest, his practise even on a hot day. His mind ticked with omniscience.

Hello Victor, Sam bellowed happily. I feel like a walk today. Interested?

Let's play chess firs', Victor suggested flatly.

Victor’s insanity was not a subject anyone could clarify with logic. Yet Judge Samuel Anderson lived by the rule of logical discourse. He knew all pain was physical. He felt the pain of the victim most acutely. But he could not understand mental anguish.

As tormented as Victor revealed himself to Sam, he always found a way to respond in a gifted way. It was Victor’s way - to say so much so well; and Sam’s way, to make note of it.

No, Victor. The outcome is always the same, and then you're too tired to walk. What do you say? Walk?

Alright, judge. We can 'ave a discourse on nature and man. Jus' let me get my shoes.

Sam Anderson stood outside by the porch. He smiled at Raymond. Smells like dinner is cooking. So early?

Victor eats early. Diabetes. Maybe you can stay for supper someday, judge, Raymond suggested.

You know I was thinking the same thing. You let me know when is a good day.

Nothing big. Maybe a chicken an' some potates. Bring a guest if you like. Maybe your wife.

She is going to have her hands full with the new boy that's coming to stay at our home. But if I think of it I can probably remember to mention it to Father Brenwitz. I'm sure he'd like it if I asked for you. Would you invite the priest?

Dat's a fine plan, Sam. Can you do it? Can you ask de Fader? He’s not a well man, maybe you ‘eard? But, he can bless de home, and you and he can ‘ave a meal. I got to get de ‘ouse in order and get some groceries. How about dis summer. A Sunday after church? You're a good man to 'elp Victor. Victor likes all old men, but 'e likes you de best.

I'll take any compliments that come my way, Raymond. Let's give thanks for Victor.

Victor emerged from the house with his shoes on. I’m ready; let’s go.

Alright. See you Raymond, this summer. Next month I’ll come and get Victor to go to church and return with the Father, said Sam.

D’accord.

Victor and Sam left the driveway and set out along the road. The silence between them was broken by the sound of their feet against the hard road under their heels, and the drill of insects rising to an alarming crescendo then dying off. There had been an infestation of caterpillars this year in the mountains that threatened to increase the crow population. Judge Anderson noticed the sun kept the shadows close to the telephone poles. A faint wind carried the salt air from the sea and left his tongue slightly dry. The wind carried the dust from the shoulder of the road. He could smell the tar spray from the road. He saw a few crows fly past and caw loudly. Along the sides, the grass chaffed and dried, rustling gently. The summer canvas of flaccid colors etched into his mind similar days before Nancy, or his legal career, when like now, the only thing that mattered was what to do.

Judge Anderson liked Victor. Victor was a prodigal son who had withered from misfortune. It was only last year that Victor had completed sixteen years in a psychiatric facility. Despite his forty eight years of age and his mental illness, Victor had a child-like quality of curiosity and concern. He had come home to his father and resumed a friendship that had started in his youth.

The time Sam spent with Victor felt like a social service to this community although he and his wife chiefly enjoyed their two months of their summer vacation here.

Once he had taken him to a chess tournament. Victor had won with rapid skilful moves. He knew he could not beat Victor at the game but he would have something to tell the other villagers whenever they sidled up with some talk about the 'crazies' in town.

Victor's mind was elegant. His wit shattered his own pretentiousness. His capacity for irony made Victor seem less a tragic figure. What did it matter his mental illness, his massive shape that moved around his lumbering gait, Sam thought. He was kind to everyone and loved to be around people.

They began to walk along the road until they came to a bridge with a set of railroad tracks that stretched and wound through the hills. Victor's discourse turned to the Bible.

In t’ings unseen dwells all fait’. Yet de final proof - de gateway to heaven, resides wit’ de babble of death.

Maybe proof doesn’t come from being close to death. Maybe faith stems the tide of the unseen hell, Sam added empathetically.

It depends on whether you walk de wide paved highway or de open waters, Judge.

Ahead of the two travelers, there a small band of boys appeared on the railroad tracks that Victor and Sam were planning to cross at the bridge. They were laughing and throwing stones. For a time, they remained in the distance.

The Bible urges us to a moral life, Victor grew more serious.

Yes I suppose it does. But a moral life, liberally spattered with the blood of Biblical figures, said Sam.

Victor changed the subject. But Sam's mind wandered. He had a lot on his mind. Especially today. That's why he had dropped in to see Victor. He felt that uncertainty had led him and his wife to adopt a seventeen year old boy into their home. Plus the adoption had given him an uneasy sense of responsibility. He, and his wife Nancy were not able to have children of their own. It was really Nancy who wanted the child. He wanted to be unfettered from the obligation, at least to the extent that he could render a decision about how he felt about the prospect of an instant family - with some impartiality. ‘You can't just grow a family by pouring water on the ground’, he had remembered saying. Anger had thumped in his skull. For a brief moment, he felt that same anger but he swallowed hard and tried to forget about it. For the time being, he was able to clear his mind of his concerns.

It had been his wife's decision to foster a child. She boasted that she could do more in the last four years of youth than most mother's could do in the first four. The foster agency contact had told them that Aryl came from a troubled family. He was adopted from India by Augustine and Maybelle when he was four years old. Although the boy thought well of his adoptive mother, he cared little for his adoptive father. When Maybelle died, Augustine became the sole custodian. He did not handle the responsibility well. Instead he abandoned the boy at an orphanage home and Aryl became a ward of the State.

Sam had always wanted a family. But with the prospect of a teenager in their midst, he felt older than ever before. That Nancy was only forty-five, made him feel younger than his sixty-two years. It mattered to him that the boy had a traumatic family history. What bothered him most was he did not know how he would strike him ... as friendly benefactor, or untrustworthy foe. He had told his wife he was reluctant to take up the banner of friendship, and for that he was soundly derided. It was her idea to bring Aryl to the summer vacations community near the sea. But the Judge had plans to work on a Government Inquiry into the Notwithstanding Clause that he had been commissioned to write in the office he had opened in town.

Judge, I have an opinion of Russia that I feel I should share. Victor had learned to be careful with what he shared. But he felt comfortable with Sam. He could tell him his ideas - things that he never would discuss with anyone else.

The theatre of everyday life has become an arena of high drama. Go on. Judge Anderson thoughtlessly surveyed the bright afternoon landscape.

I can't stop thinkin’ dat Stalin had Hitler in jail. Victor narrowed his eyes with intensity.

It would be a terrible day for Communist Russia to have Hitler alive and in jail. No Hitler is dead.

"What would be so bad if he had been alive in Russia and dead dere too?

"Right now, the only thing that makes Russia an Empire is its bombs. Could they have put the man on trial? He would have to prepare a defense. If they just hanged him and the world were to know, he'd be a post modern hero to fascist types all over the world. Remember we are at war with Russia. If he was alive and in Russia - which he is not - no one would know about it, and he would be executed secretly. What justice would there be in that?

It would be like having a Cold War - as the French say 'soixante neuf'."

What do you mean Judge?

The story will swallow all stories. Do you know what bombs are for Victor?

For War?

No. Bombs are for Peace. And herein lies our ministry. Want it?

No thanks, Judge.

Then behold. Another bold new clay-born clod passes into oblivion.

Some boys, tanned from the summer sun drew closer. He could see that there were three of them. From the distance that separated the travelers, Sam could guess they had been swimming. Garbed in shorts and tee-shirts, one of the boys carried a long stick. He used it to negotiate through the culvert that bordered one side of the tracks. They stopped and threw down their sacks. Two of them ran in front of the one with the stick and up the side of a ditch to the top. Victor and Sam reached the one side of the bridge. They looked to see the railroad tracks stretch out into oblivion.

The boys were closer now and as they approached their laughter grew louder and their horse play grew bolder. Sam and Victor continued to walk straight on towards the tracks. Seeing the two travelers, they drew closer to the other side of the bridge and abandoned the act they had designed for their audience.

Sam narrowed his eyes and sized up the boys. The boy carrying the stick had a dry, lifeless laugh like the clatter of spoons on tin pots. His hair was blonde and his shoulders were burnt red. His two friends waited on his every word. One of them, a dark haired boy with a sensual mouth, grinned at the other who needed a shave. They talked in mute whispers and looked up and laughed, creating the impression that they had a secret. They were at least sixteen if not seventeen years old, he thought. They seemed disrespectful to adults. In a way, their behavior reminded him of the type of people that grew up to be represented in court by one side of an argument or another.

Hey! the boy carrying the stick yelled while looking at Victor. They were closer now. He stopped in front of them.

Are you a bum? he asked in French.

Victor winced.

Sam sighed. He understood enough French to translate the offensiveness of the question. He moved quickly to interrupt any communication between the boys and Victor. He did not feel that Victor had to defend himself for the way he dressed and behaved. The boys were too young to understand his psychological wounds. They had no experience with seeing through a blinded soul.

He reached into his pocket.

I think I've got some candy here. Do you and your friends like candy?

I've never seen a bum before. What do you do for food? one said as he greedily took the candy from Sam.

Victor is not a bum.

If you're not a bum why do you dress like dat? said another.

Is he derangē? Does he do violen' tings? I've 'eard of mental cases like him but I never seen one up close, the third boy said.

Look you ask a lot of questions, Sam said angrily. But none of them amount to anything but an interrogation. And it seems that we're getting a pretty good impression of what kind of boys you are like. Take the candy and go collaborate on a plan to treat your fellow Man like yourself.

Sam had an elastic conscience. That was one of the characteristics of his professional life as well. He could suspend disbelief as well as judgment in order to hear and understand argument. The boys needed a lesson in behavior but he did