I don’t know, answered Ann.
Like floating about in a void, said Father Butler. Devoid of reference points.
Ann tightened her blankets around her. Outside she could hear the din of the crowd. She was calm and listless yet she burned with fever. An inchoate truth had hold of her. She could see Father Collins had misgivings about the tone of this prelude to an inquisition. He fidgeted and watched her with a conspirator’s empathy, as if to say I’m not his friend, these are unavoidable circumstances. Ann watched Father Butler pull back a shade and peer outside as if he was dumbfounded. But it was all an act, she could easily see this. She could see his shrewd and driven performance. He was already fashioning his clerical noose, there was nobody who could talk to God except the pope himself.
In here the questions are abstract, said Father Butler. But out there a thousand fervent pilgrims are waiting for us to emerge.
More than a thousand, said Carolyn. And all of them believers.
Father Butler let the shade fall back. Right, he said. More than a thousand. I meant a thousand figuratively. At any rate, here we all are. Contemplating, once again, the eternal attraction of the Mother of God. A thing so easily… exploited.
He smiled beatifically at Ann, then raised his hands like Jesus sermonizing. In my job, he said, there are wonders, of course. It isn’t all just flimflam artists. And one of these wonders is our Church’s recognition that God in all his mystery and power has in fact historically communicated with us, and if he so chooses can communicate again, and can choose to do so via private revelation, by presenting himself, if I can put it this way, to the inward perception of an individual, to Abraham or Moses, say, who in turn is called to deliver God’s message in a public fashion, as you feel you are, and this has been one of God’s great means, to deliver himself to his followers through the conduit of such revelations, a divine technique which the Church affirms may not be confined to the Lord alone but may extend as well to Our Lady, the Blessed Mother, as we’ve witnessed in Bernadette at Lourdes, whose visions the Church deems worthy of belief, in Lucia dos Santos at Fátima, in her cousins Jacinta and Francisco Marto, in Sister Catherine Labouré, in Mélanie Calvat and Maximin Giraud, these are all individuals, Ann, whose claims were very similar to your own and whose revelations were carefully scrutinized, examined by local diocesan committees, approved by pertinent local bishops, and ultimately accepted as legitimate by the Church—a mere handful of cases, my dear, among the thousands investigated; nevertheless, there they are, and because they are, why, there are men such as me, appointed to pursue these claims.
So the odds aren’t good, said Carolyn. Because the Church holds all the cards.
Father Butler locked his fingers together. Cards, he said, are an improper conceit. But on the other hand it is the province of the Church to make a determination, is it not? The Church revealed by the Holy Spirit, the Church perfected in glory? Who else might do so?
Only the Church, Ann agreed. There isn’t anybody else.
Father Butler tried to lean back and stretch, but there simply wasn’t room. He looked oversized, a rat in a mouse den, an adult in a child’s playhouse. In these matters, he explained, the Church is careful. Exhaustive, always, in its consideration. Not wishing to err in either direction. In the end quite delicate about its wording. The opinion of the Church is rendered exactingly. The question of discernment is taken seriously. We must decide if this is merely a case for secular psychologists to yawn about or, instead, a bona fide apparition. Or—a third disturbing alternative—one of the tricks of Satan.
Father Butler allowed a beat of silence for the obvious purpose of heightened drama. I know what you’re probably thinking, he said. The concept of Satan is… antiquated. Perhaps you’re waiting for me right now to use the word diabolical so you can have a laugh at my expense.
No, said Ann. I’m not.
I was thinking more of Arch Fiend, said Carolyn. Arch Fiend or Prince of Darkness.
A rose by any other name, Father Butler shot back. But it’s always possible that the force of evil, to give Satan more secular clothing, is active in fomenting apparitions, so we must take this possibility into account, we can’t dismiss Satan’s subterfuge. Greed, ambition, personal gain, the name of evil is irrelevant, name it as you must, Ms. Greer. According to your lights, such as they are. As you please, as you must. Lucifer goes by any number of titles, but always his endeavor is exactly the same, to destroy, subvert, bring anarchy and chaos, pave the way for hell on earth.
The Great Deceiver, said Carolyn. You’re saying maybe it’s the devil in disguise when Ann sees the Virgin Mary?
I’m saying, said Father Butler, that it’s possible. That we can’t overlook that prospect.
I’m just not much for talk of the devil.
We’ll put him in the back of our mind for now then.
Do you think that’s really a good place for him?
Foremost is our effort, generally, at discernment. A broad endeavor, certainly. So we can afford to leave him there temporarily while we press forward in other areas.
We, said Carolyn. Forgive me but that sounds like the royal plural.
The priestly plural, said Father Butler. Father Collins and I.
Father Collins smiled sheepishly. He looked, thought Carolyn, disposed to defend himself, prepared to distance himself from Father Butler, but instead there was a saving knock at the door and she threw it open with muscular force on two sentinels in rubber rain gear and on the woman with the transparent plastic scarf battened down against her hair who was poised between them like an actress on whom the curtain has risen. I’m here, she said, on behalf of your petitioners, and handed Carolyn a wad of paper on which, she explained, were requests. They want to see you, Our Ann, she added. They need you to hear their appeals.
She has to go to the woods now, said Carolyn. Tell them to clear a way for us so we can get through them, please.
She shut the door, turned to the priests, and picked up her bullhorn with belligerent enthusiasm. Well, well, she said. How interesting. We’re about to embark on a forest journey to the site of these purported apparitions. But won’t it appear, if you come along too, that you’ve decided to sanction us?
Appearances are not of interest, said Father Butler. Only reality. Truth.
I agree, ventured Father Collins. We only want the truth.
Brave of you, sneered Carolyn.
Father Butler raised one hand. Whatever your sentiments might be, he said, we’d like to continue this dialogue with Ann. Would it be possible for you to meet with us—tonight, say? At seven o’clock? Would that work for you? At Father Collins’ church? In town at seven o’clock?
Our day is long, said Carolyn. Make it nine o’clock.
Ann pushed her blanket aside. Her thin forearms, the knobs of her wrists, suggested emaciation. The pallor of illness had left her white in disconcerting fashion. Father Collins, she wheezed. I ask you again. I ask you in the name of Our Lady, please. Help me build her church.
They set out into the forest at eleven-thirty, slowed by the volume of the campground crowd, and the trees were a relief to Ann, though her illness made walking difficult. It helped that overnight a way had been cleared as obvious as the Oregon Trail. Ann led, leaning on Carolyn, who carried only her bullhorn. The two priests walked immediately at their backs, next four sentinels hauling alms buckets, and behind them five thousand pilgrims. The sheriff had deputized three out-of-work loggers, bringing the county contingent to nine; there was also his department’s canine team, a leashed pair of fat German shepherds. The state had sent a half dozen patrol officers whose pressed uniforms and wide-brimmed hats made them look like colorless doppelgängers of Royal Canadian Mounties. In the forest their shined shoes were loudly out of place. Soon they all had wet feet.
Most of the photographers darted ahead in search of advantageous postures from which to shoot in the forest gloom, but the trees made it impossible for them to capture the magnitude of the
crowd. The journalists were consistently thwarted by sentinels, though one managed briefly to walk beside Ann and ask Do you have a Web site yet or an e-mail address where I can reach you? Carolyn replied, Yes we do, it’s Ann at North Fork dot org. All one word. Ann with no e. Caps where appropriate. You’ll find our e-mail address there and you can e-mail us your questions conveniently and we’ll get back to you.
I sense you’re lying.
Okay—it’s a lie.
What if I ask some questions right now?
Now really isn’t a very good time.
How do you feel about everything that’s happened?
Now isn’t a good time to talk.
Would you say you expected a crowd this large?
She isn’t answering questions, sir.
Who are you?
Carolyn Greer.
Right, but who are you?
Carolyn Greer. Double-e Greer. Spokeswoman.
Spokeswoman?
At a later date I’ll pencil you in.
Ms. Holmes, is this person really your spokeswoman?
Yes. She is.
Leave your card, said Carolyn.
The log at Fryingpan Creek was still intact but had now been circumvented. The trail turned downstream fifty yards to where a makeshift bridge had been erected by someone with a rudimentary background in construction. There were slip-proof treads nailed over rough planks, neat one-by-two safety railings, and plywood wheelchair ramps. On the near bank two men waited. One wore a green wool timber cruiser’s jacket, the other a Highlander raincoat. They were standing with their hands in their pockets, observing the approach of Ann’s processional, minions of the local land baron. Greetings, said the one in the Highlander coat. I’m Richard Devine. From the Stinson Timber Company. And this is Richard Olsen.
So you’re both named Richard, said Carolyn.
And who might you be?
Carolyn Greer.
And your friend here beside you is the girl with the visions?
That depends, said Carolyn.
Two of Ann’s sentinels moved silently forward with a distinctly martial air. Their manner prompted Richard Devine to put a fretful hand to his temple. He had a patrician’s gesticulations; the hand to his temple, though liver-spotted, was elegant and debonair. I see, he said. And you’ve brought along a crowd. Something like a medieval army.
Well observed, said Carolyn. Though it’s hard to miss five thousand people.
The other Richard, who was implike and stumpy, a thirtyish retainer with a crescent of red hair—a friar’s ringed pate, thought Carolyn, on a classic victim of male-pattern baldness—took from his jacket a neatly folded map and began to unfold it meticulously. This, he said, is a company map. But everything on it can be verified with the county. And we thought you might want to have a look.
Pilgrims were now making dashes through the creek, walking the log, and boulder-hopping. Richard Devine watched with what Carolyn divined was a mock and artful anguish. He peeked under the hand at his brow, grimaced, and peeked another time. I’m afraid they’re trespassing, he said, wincing.
The map will show that, said Richard Olsen. Everything on the other side of the creek is Stinson Timber land.
Which we wouldn’t mind, added Richard Devine. Except that you’ve got enough people here to fill a football stadium. Plus you’ve plowed a trail through our holdings. There’s serious damage to the undergrowth and a considerable amount of garbage.
I hear what you’re saying, answered Carolyn. Your issues are excessive littering and modest environmental damage. So let me assure you we’ll pick up our garbage. A committee will be appointed right away to police your property thoroughly. And now that we have a trail established, there won’t be any new undergrowth damage. We can organize trail supervisors, we can keep our people to the path.
But up where you have your religious meetings, Richard Olsen said. All of these people disperse out there. Fan out. Fill the woods. That’s where the damage is occurring.
Extreme damage, said Richard Devine. We made an inspection of the site this morning. For us it’s tantamount to devastation. The erosion and plant loss is significant. And there are also sanitation issues. We’re not sure our woods can recover.
In the grand scheme of things it’s a small area, said Carolyn. You own, what, ten billion acres? Why not give five acres to Mother Mary?
It’s an ecosystem, explained Richard Olsen. Things in it are contiguous. Interrelated. Mutually dependent. There’s a ripple effect from five acres.
Spare me, said Carolyn. You’re Stinson Timber, not the Sierra Club. It’s lost timber you’re worrying about, so cut the enviro-babble.
Timber for profit, said Richard Olsen, is not inherently evil, is it? We’re also stewards of the land.
Stewards of the land, said Carolyn. The last time I checked you were Stinson Timber. The biggest devastators of land in the state. Owners of ten thousand poorly planned clear-cuts you keep hidden behind locked gates. But from the air, you know what? Everyone can see. In between bites of their airplane food. Your land is completely defoliated. Vietnam after the air force got through. Your land looks utterly and completely tragic. Stewards of the land. Stewards of the land. If you’re stewards of the land I’m Julia Roberts. Talk about Newspeak! War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Stinson Timber is steward of its lands. I don’t want to hear more lies.
Richard Devine clutched his forehead again like someone with a dawning migraine. My God, he said. Let’s stick to the point. The only issue in front of us is trespassing. Trespassing plain and simple.
From your point of view, said Carolyn. By the way, where’s your coterie of lawyers? Hiding behind the trees?
We don’t need lawyers, said Richard Olsen. We just need calm. And common sense.
Carolyn raised her electric bullhorn. Pass the word back among the others! she called. We’re going to take a short break right here! A ten-minute break! Pass it back!
I’m glad to hear, said Richard Devine, that you feel we can resolve this in ten minutes.
We can totally resolve this, Carolyn said. Because I know exactly how to speak your language. Your language—obviously—is cash.
What we want to talk about is trespassing, said Devine. I take that back. We don’t want to talk about it. We’re just asking you not to do it.
And you’re asking us not to because you think we do damage. And damage can always be mitigated, right? Offset with cash on the barrelhead, right? So look—my people will call your people. And we’ll work things out, we’ll get to it. It’s just that for now—guess what?—we’re here. And no one really wants to go home. No one exactly wants to stop. They all came out here because Mother Mary is making appearances on your land. Is that something you can blithely ignore? The fact that the Virgin is appearing on your property? Doesn’t a phenomenon such as that make “trespassing” somehow trivial, irrelevant? Open your eyes to reality. There’s five thousand people backed up behind me who are bent on crossing this bridge.
Point well taken, said Richard Devine. Nevertheless: no trespassing on our property. And I’m sure that with your bullhorn there you can suppress reluctance on the part of your followers to conform to the state’s no trespassing law. These are religious people, after all, not hooligans or rabble-rousers. Despite the behavior of those people over there on the other side of the creek.
Wow, said Carolyn. Unbelievable. I mean I don’t think you’re even hearing me. I can see you’re going to make this difficult. So let me try another approach. Bear with me while I start all over. Now I’m betting in the pocket of your deluxe fancy raincoat is a very small and elegant cell phone and I’m also betting that you can hit one button and be in touch with your CEO or with the vice-president in charge of trespassing issues or with the department of access approval forms or with whoever actually makes decisions and I want you to get that person for me and put she or he—I know I’m not grammatically correct—put her or him on the line.
The decision’s been
made. It’s a moot point now. There’s nobody for me to call anymore. Except, maybe, the sheriff.
Carolyn smiled. Let me page him, she said. She raised the bullhorn and glared at her adversary. Sheriff Randolph Nelson, she said. Paging Sheriff Randolph Nelson.
She lowered the bullhorn and shrugged with loose ease. Wherever we go we bring him, she said. The sheriff likes to tag along with us.
How convenient, answered Devine.
They fell into waiting. Carolyn sat beside Ann, against a rock. The immense flock of pilgrims squatted in the trail, perched on logs, leaned against trees, ate, sang, and prayed. Father Butler remarked to Father Collins, You were absolutely right about the weather out here, it’s clammy underneath this canopy, I’m chilly and a little damp. But, said Father Collins, the forest is truly marvelous. I feel when I’m here the presence of God. You do? said Father Butler. All well and good. As long as you’re not seeing Our Lady.
The sheriff blustered into view with two straight-faced deputies in tow: three men carrying firearms. What’s the trouble up here? he asked. There’s five thousand people in these woods.
The trouble, said Carolyn, is that guy there with the ironic name of Richard Devine. You’d think that with a name like Devine he’d see the light or something.
Devine handed the sheriff his card. We’re trying to do something simple, he said. We’re trying to put a stop to trespassing.
The sheriff gave the card a cursory perusal, then handed it back absentmindedly. There’s five thousand people out here, he said. Approximately five thousand people.
Precisely the problem, answered Richard Devine. If it was five rather than five thousand, that would be dramatically different. We probably wouldn’t much notice or care. But five thousand? That’s another story. A difference not only in degree but in quality. We can’t allow them on Stinson land in such utterly devastating numbers.
Nelson rubbed his chin, befuddled. He hung his thumbs from his belt buckle, a habit, zipped his jacket and unzipped it. This is a bad situation, he said. You’ve got your five thousand people here who want to get through to where they’re going and set against them me and my deputies and some state patrollers in shiny shoes and that’s what we’ve got to try and stop them. Now if each of us handcuffs one of these people and drags him forcibly out of the woods that still leaves four thousand nine hundred eighty-five to swarm right past us and across the creek, in other words I don’t have the logistical capability to enforce your property rights.