E-Book, Englisch, 145 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-908372-09-3
Verlag: M-Y Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection
Malcolm McKay has published three novels, THE LACK BROTHERS, BREAKING UP and THISTOWN (for children), as well as being a writer and director for television. His writing has always dealt with extreme behaviour and includes the controversial BBC play AIRBASE which dealt metaphorically with drug abuse on a USAF base in England (the plays was mentioned in Parliament after Prime Minister Thatcher demanded a copy). His work also includes the multiaward winning A WANTED MAN trilogy one of the first television dramas to deal in depth with the arrest, trial and pychology of a serial killer. His stage play, THE PEOPLE'S TEMPLE describes the slow descent of the Californian cult into paranoia and mass suicide. In his film MARIA'S CHILD, he graphically describes a female dancer's decision to abort her child and the subsequent doubts and difficulties of the process. Malcolm Mckay has been a writer for forty years. THE PATH is his first novel to be published as an ebook.
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By the time Llewellyn had left the refuge, Father Paul Kramer and Harry Hopper were ten kilometres ahead of him. They’d spent the night in the first albergue out of St Jean (it was the same place that Rhoda and Deena had stayed, but they’d made no connection), and were now going up the steep mountain road to the Pic D’Orisson. The first half of the climb had been through wooded valleys. Now they were at three thousand feet; the air was cool and sharp and the mountains spread around and beneath them were a bleak, dull, brown. Their peaks and ridges were massive and smooth, softly rising one after another into the distance, often with cloud between and below them. They looked absolutely immovable; like God’s will, Paul thought. He was a powerfully built man of average height and too many pounds. He had a round, battered face and short grey hair; an easy smile and an engaging laugh, neither of which could entirely hide the deep sadness etched into the lines around his eyes. He was breathless from the climb as he reached the shrine of the Vierge D’Orisson set back from the road on a rock outcrop overlooking a shallow valley. He’d promised himself and Our Lady a novena when he’d reached the shrine, but the truth was he needed a rest anyway. Sixty five is too damn old for hauling this paunch up mountains. He sat on his pack and looked up at the statue cemented into the pile of fallen rock. The Virgin was about four feet high, grey pitted stone. There were some dead flowers around her feet, and a few small pink living ones sprouting too. He didn’t know the name of them. Her face was weathered down, with a chipped nose in profile against the panorama beyond. The valley at her feet sloped away with a few little white houses dotted around, and then, even smaller, tiny in the fall of the land, what could have been the wild ponies they’d been told about, but they were too distant to make out down there. Must be freezing here in winter, he thought. “Look at that,” he said, gazing up at the statue. “Are those vultures?” said Harry. “Down there. It’s a protected habitat, you know that? I heard they drop dead sheep by helicopter for them to feed on.” “I was talking about the Virgin, Harry.” Paul dropped his pack and felt the relief in his shoulders. “What are you going on about anyway? Dropping sheep by helicopter? I never heard so much crap.” “It’s what I heard. Probably see a few kites and buzzards too.” Harry wasn’t offended. He was lean, tall and sixty. He knew who he was and took it as it came, and anyway Paul was a good friend of his. “I’m going to pray a little,” said the priest. “OK, Paul.” “You?” “What are they, Japanese?” Harry was looking down the hill and could see the Koreans coming up. They were still a long way down. Paul turned and looked out at the deep folding curves of the range. They felt like they’d been there for all of time. A lot longer than the Virgin anyway. “Long way from Missouri.” Paul stretched his back wanting to uncramp the burn in his neck. He was a parish priest from Jefferson City and had managed to persuade his bishop to let him take this break for spiritual refreshment. Even as he’d said it he knew it was only half the truth. Fact is, he was worn out. Didn’t know what hard work was until he’d got to be a priest, which he’d done late, gone into the seminary at fifty-two years old. Seemed right at that time, maybe still was. His wife had left him, the boys were at university, what in hell was he going to do anyway? Just sit there on his own? A lonely decomposure, some other stranded old guy had called it. Then on top of it all someone had whispered in his ear the company was in trouble, there was the smell of closure in the air and he knew he’d be the first for the sympathy. He’d thought about going back to college, but how much education do you need? He had already had his masters in psychology and anyway the one thing that had kept him going through the mess of divorce and her damn unreasonableness wasn’t anything intellectual, it was the church. He’d lost count of how many times he’d sat in there on his own in a pew up the back looking at the altar, praying for the strength to get through it all. Then it was done; she’d taken off down to Texas with another guy. Didn’t want the house or the kids. God, that was some woman he’d married. And he didn’t want another one. He’d waited a few years looking after the boys, trying to hold back the depression he knew was coming, then they went too. He’d celebrated his fiftieth birthday on his own. Not long after came the damn company rocking. He hated the job anyway. And so there he was back in that empty church again looking up at Christ on the cross trying to imagine how men could do that to a man. He kept going back, night after night, just sitting there, nowhere else to go. He’d offered Father Weizinski as much help as he could, read the gospels, bought the old guys into mass in his car. Weizinski had said, why don’t you take a theology degree, become a deacon? No, it didn’t have the bite he needed. So he sat there in the pew again, night after night, his hands clasped in his lap, feeling cold and about as useful as the dust on his shoe. Then he had an idea. Why didn’t he just ask God? Ask Him what to do? Seemed simple enough. So he did. Please God, I’m asking you, what should I do? He got no answer. Just rows of empty pews and the sound of traffic on the road outside. He didn’t give up. He went back and asked again. On the third night the answer came. Be a priest. It knocked him sideways. He almost ran out of the church. He asked again. Same answer, be a priest. On his way home he stopped the car, got out and took a walk. There was a wind blowing, some grit got in his eye. He sat back in the car and turned the radio on. There was a guy talking about a forthcoming city celebration. He turned the radio off. What in hell did he have to celebrate? ‘Be a priest.’ The voice was so loud he turned round to the back of the car and stared at the seat. He checked the radio. It was off. He looked out of the window at the storm brewing. “Oh my God,” he said. The boys were horrified. It was outside their range. They couldn’t imagine having their Dad as a holy man. You wear those black skirt things? Even Dorothea called from Houston. Are you insane? But the worst was from his mother. She didn’t speak to him for two years, even after he’d entered the seminary she put the phone down on him. And boy was that training tough. Three times he thought to leave, once even packed a bag. He was hopeless, thought his memory had gone, couldn’t remember a damn thing. But he made it, took his vows and ended up back in Jefferson City where it all started. His mother came round, and even attended mass in his church until she died. He threw himself into it, births, marriages, deaths. He was popular; an older man, been around a little, right to the point, knew people, what they were going through. They came to him for advice. Made him feel good; at first. ‘Don’t you miss a woman, Dad?’ his youngest asked him. ‘Hell no, I’ve had more intimate conversations with women on that couch than you’ve had hotdogs. And sex? You can keep it. Look what came out of it.’ He gave the boy a hug. For a while, some years maybe, he was happy, then it got hard, sheer grind. He stopped seeing happy faces, grieving faces, worried faces, all he saw was need, and all he could think of was going back to a TV dinner and his bed. No-one gets it do they? All that stuff can wear you down. You try doing three funerals in a week. He knew himself well enough to see that old depression just round the corner. So finally when he went into the bishop’s office it wasn’t just spiritual refreshment he needed, it was a damn good holiday. Only problem was the one he’d chosen seemed to involve walking around fifteen miles a day. He dropped to his knees at the foot of the statue. Maybe this was better than the back of that empty church, but he still needed to pray just as bad. He badly needed to hear that voice again. He clasped his hands and asked God what he needed to know. At first the sound was low, barely whispered, as if unsure of itself. Slowly it rose, a woman’s voice. He opened his eyes and looked up. He’d thought at first that the statue was singing to him. It wasn’t. He turned round. Standing behind him were Harry, two Koreans and a very fat woman. She must have been well over two hundred pounds. She was singing Gounod’s Ave Maria. Her voice, now loud, was as clear as a bell, echoing across the valleys and rising up into the cold air. He’d never heard anything so beautiful. The Koreans, a kid with a crewcut, and a young slim woman with black hair, shifting her feet, stood with their hands clasped looking up at the Virgin. Harry, looming over all of them, was smiling like hell. Paul’s first thought was to sing with her, but what was his voice going to add to this? The woman’s big round face was full of light and a kind of fervour Paul had forgotten, or if he was honest, had never truly known. Two other women were coming up behind. One had blond hair pulled back tight from her face. She dropped to her knees behind the fat woman. The other, taller, with short bobbed hair, held back; she dropped her pack on the road and sat on it. Paul lowered his head and prayed until the song was over. He heard Harry say, “God, that was something.” Paul raised his head and smiled, “Thank you.” He introduced himself. The woman bowed her head in acknowledgement when Harry told her Paul was a priest. Her name was Maria. She was...
