Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Purgatory ❯ Chapter 7 ( Chapter 7 )

Slumped into a pew, Wolfwood contemplated the altar again, the crucifix hanging above it, and closed his eyes. He meant to complete the prayer he had begun before Chapel had shattered his thoughts. He thought about his old life, and he thought about Milly. He remembered his hope for an Eden, a paradise where he could live with the woman he loved and his friends. It hurt to think about it now. Sleep crept up his body, softening his muscles, relieving the tension in his bones. The slight loss of equilibrium that precedes unconsciousness swept over him. Do dead men dream? he wondered to himself, and almost instantly, he was asleep.

The creaking of the heavy door startled him from his rest, and years on the move allowed him to remember his surroundings and circumstances with amazing clarity. He stiffened, and tensed against the new intruder into his sleeping quarters.

“Father Mac! Father Mac!” yelled a small voice, unconcerned with sacred protocols and running undaunted on holy ground. Little feet patterned out a staccato tune as the boy raced up the center aisle. Wolfwood turned around lazily, already having decided the child was not a threat.

Wolfwood had difficulty believing a child could be bad, he knew. It was one of the reasons Zazie’s death had been so impossible to deal with. He had never killed a child before. The kid was innocent, a host. But he thought there was no other way.

A small piece of his soul had left him at the instant his bullet departed the chamber. Wolfwood protected kids, saved them, fed and clothed them, cared for them. Treated orphans as if they were his own family, because, hell, that’s what they were--he grew up a son of the same streets that fathered them. They were all mothered by loss and tutored by hunger.

But when Zazie had threatened Vash, he had to act. He knew the Gung Ho Guns. Knew them intimately as one of their own. When he saw that look in Zazie’s eyes, he knew the child was gone. Only the demon remained. And at that moment, Wolfwood hadn’t cared. He did what he had to do…what he wanted to do. Save Vash. Nothing else had mattered. But now he wondered if that too, could have turned out differently. So much regret. Seems so pointless now.

“Father Mac…..” the boy’s voice failed him as he realized his mistake.

Wolfwood stayed seated, not wanting to alarm the kid, and smiled at him without realizing it. He really did love rugrats, dammit. It was as much a part of his personality as his dry sense of humour, and he was as helpless against children as he was against his nicotine addiction.

“Hi,” Wolfwood said to the confused boy. He looked about ten but was small for his age. He had a mop of black hair stuck under a baseball cap and was dressed sloppily in too-big clothes. He was holding a portable radio and a book. He looked suspiciously at Wolfwood with eyes that seemed a little too old for his face.

“You‘re not Father Mac,” the boy grudgingly responded. He then returned the greeting, almost as an afterthought. “Hi. What‘s your name?” He looked directly into Wolfwood’s eyes as if trying to place him.

The priest was doing the same. He felt there was something familiar about the boy and didn’t immediately answer.

“You’re not homeless, are you?” the child accused. “They had to lock the church up for a while because of bums like you sleeping here! You better get lost before Father Mac comes!”

Wolfwood grinned despite the harsh tone of the kid’s voice. Not answering that question (because, well, he was sort of homeless and he had been sleeping in the church), he said what he knew would get the kid’s attention. “I’m a priest too,” he informed him. “My name’s Nicholas D. Wolfwood.”

“Stupid name for a priest,” said the kid. “Stupid way to introduce yourself too.” Some of the distrust had left his voice but there was a remnant left. Must be a tough kid, thought Wolfwood. He liked him.

“Well, maybe it’s a stupid name, but I gave it to you ‘cause you asked. What’s yours?”

Wary eyes glared at him. “Neil.”

Wolfwood smiled and said nothing. He had met a hundred kids like this one and knew when to talk and when to keep his mouth shut. He could tell Neil had something on his mind so he decided to let it come on its own.

Finally, Wolfwood’s smile disarmed him, and Neil grinned back. “What are you doing here so early? I had to come before school ‘cause I need to ask Father Mac a question. No one is ever at the church this early but he said he would meet me but now I might be late to class and he’s not here…” Again unsure of himself, Neil lowered his eyes and scuffed his feet on the floor.

“I just needed to spend some time with the Big Guy,” Wolfwood answered, cocking his head towards the altar. “It’s been a while since I had a one-on-one, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Neil agreed solemnly, suddenly dropping his tough guy attitude. “I guess when you’re a priest you have to spend a lot of time here anyway.”

“You should want to, perhaps,” Wolfwood said in a quiet voice, “but you don’t have to.” His thoughts drifted to his church, his orphanage, the times he had gone to God accusingly, when a child’s parents had been murdered, one of his friends senselessly slaughtered, all the bloodshed and he had never seen a way out except to become the thing he hated most. For them. For the kids.

“Well, maybe you can help me!” Neil said, plopping down into the pew next to Wolfwood and thrusting his book into the surprised priest’s hands.

“Sure…” Wolfwood nodded, not sure what he was agreeing to. He turned over the book and saw the word REQUIEM boldly stamped across the front. An icy chill crept over his skin, and he shuddered involuntarily.

The boy didn’t notice; he had opened the book and was flipping the pages in the missal hurriedly, leaning over Wolfwood and scrutinizing each leaf before turning to the next section.

“I’ve gotta learn this part…” he muttered. “It’s only one line…but my Latin sucks,” he looked up at the priest, “I mean stinks.”

“Well, I’ll help if I can. It’s been a while for me,” Wolfwood was still trying to shake off his bad feeling. He wasn’t getting used to being dead, because he didn’t feel dead. It was a really strange situation, to put it mildly, a dead man holding the text for a requiem mass in his hands. But apparently he didn’t look dead yet, as this boy had accepted him as a priest unquestioningly and was thumbing through the book in his hands searching hard for whatever he needed help with.

“Aha!” squeaked Neil, stabbing a finger at the top of the page he had just discovered. “This is it!”

Lux Aeterna, proclaimed the flowery text. Wolfwood felt a small lump in his throat as he read the words beneath the section. He almost forgot the kid next to him when a “Hey!” jolted him out of his thoughts.

“I need to learn how to pronounce this stuff. I’m supposed to sing it tonight,” Neil said.

“Sing it?” Somehow this kid didn’t look like a typical choir boy to Wolfwood. He looked kind of like a punk.

“Yeah, sing it,” Neil said defensively. “It makes my mom happy. And I don‘t mind so much. Can you help me or not?”

Wolfwood blinked his eyes a few times to clear them--they had gotten a little watery--and looked up at Neil. “Yeah, I can help you,” he said, sorry he had made the kid uncomfortable. Pointing at the lyrics as he read, he began, “Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternum, quia pius es….now you say it with me and I‘ll correct you if you need it.”

Starting over and reading together, the unlikely pair recited, “Lux aeterna…”

Wolfwood held up his hand, “no, no, ay-ter-na,” and they continued, “luceat eis...loo-chay-at ay-ees…Domine, cum sanctis tuis…too ees..in aeternum, quia pius…pee-us not pius…es.”

“Good,” Wolfwood said, “now read it yourself.”

Neil repeated the sentence almost flawlessly, and Wolfwood grinned at him. He hadn’t used his Latin in years. Couldn’t remember the last time he had, actually. “There you go,” he encouraged him, “you’ve got it.”

“Thanks Father!” the kid grinned back. “Whatever the hell, I mean heck, it means, I’ll at least be able to sing it OK now.”

“You should let me tell you what it means,” Wolfwood said, inwardly surprised, but careful to avoid implying the kid was stupid for not knowing. “You’ll sing it better for your mom if you understand the words.”

“OK, I guess,” said Neil.

“May eternal light shine upon them, Lord, with Your saints forever, because you are merciful.” Wolfwood just managed to keep his voice steady, but couldn’t stop his eyes from blurring up again.

“ Who are ‘them’?” asked Neil.

“It’s a requiem mass,” answered Wolfwood. “A mass for the dead.”

“So ‘them’ are the dead, right?”

“Right,” responded Wolfwood. He kept talking because he was afraid of what silence would bring. “The next line you sing or say is often “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis” which means “grant them eternal rest Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them.” But I don‘t see that in your version…”

“Whoa, whoa,” laughed Neil, “I don’t need to get confused. I got my line down thanks to you, but I’ll keep it to that one for now. Maybe you can teach me that other one another time. Are you coming to the concert tonight with Father Mac?”

“Maybe,” Wolfwood winked at him. “Don’t you have to get to school?”

“Oh shit, I mean shoot, yeah!” Neil grabbed his book and stood up. “Thanks Father!”

“Sure thing Neil,” Wolfwood also got to his feet. He followed the child’s jogging figure out of the dark church and into the warm early morning sunlight, deciding he had enough of self-pity and melancholy for the day.