Passiontide. Brian E. Pearson

in sight, Father David pulled over to stretch his legs. He gathered his duffel coat around his shoulders as he wandered down toward the ditch. A split railed fence marked the edge of a farmer’s field that stretched off into the darkness. The farmhouse was nowhere in sight. Leaning on the fence, he gazed up at the night sky, pulsing with stars.

      In the distance he heard a strange sound, like the humming of power lines when they are wet with snow. How odd, he thought; the sky was dry and cloudless. He relieved himself in the tall grass, looking furtively up and down the highway for headlights. He walked back to the car and stood by the driver’s door. His breath misted up in front of his face. Then in the corner of his eye he saw a flash off to the north. Descending from a great height, there danced an impossible curtain of shimmering green, unlike anything he had ever seen before.

      He wondered if it might be the reflection of a town’s lights. But this luminous display was too fluid, too heavenly, to be of any earthly origin. It was as if the angels were ascending and descending from their celestial home, ringed in radiant splendour, their tinted hues meeting and mingling like waves crossing and criss-crossing on a beach, casting hue upon hue, each one more brilliant than the last. The fantastic display turned suddenly red now, brilliant red, spreading across the entire northern horizon. He could detect again a faint hissing, like the sound of the wind in the trees. But there was no wind; and there were no trees.

      Father David held on to the roof of the car to keep his balance. He felt he might otherwise be lifted up to simply float away with the incredible wonder of this sight. He remained still for as long as he could, until the night chill entered his joints and he began to shiver. He climbed back into the car and, in his first real prayer since beginning his journey, whispered, “Thank you, Lord. I just want to thank you.”

      He put the car into gear and drove on to the first motel that displayed a vacancy sign. He pulled up, registered at the desk, found his room, and crawled into bed.

      . . .

      It was well into the morning when he woke. The motel provided a continental breakfast in the tiny lobby, which meant a pot of drip coffee and an open box of small sugar-dusted doughnuts. He ate three, gulping down the coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He was preparing to leave when a thought struck him. He rang the bell on the counter. A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman appeared. She might have been the same one who had been on duty the night before, but he couldn’t remember.

      “Is there a service station in town?” he said.

      “You need gas or repairs?” she asked in return.

      “I need to get something checked out, a sound coming from under the hood,” he said.

      “Then you want Al’s,” she said, and gave him directions.

      “What town is this, by the way?” it suddenly occurred to him to ask.

      She smiled, but it was a wry smile. “This is Grenfell, Saskatchewan,” she said.

      He thanked her, and left. He was in Saskatchewan.

      Father David found Al in the service bay, a lanky humourless man wiping his hands on an oily rag as he stood, pensive, before an open hood. He appeared to be about Father David’s age, but with the no-nonsense look of someone who had been around a lot longer.

      Father David explained to him the “ticking” problem.

      “How is she on pick-up?” Al asked.

      Not very good, Father David explained, and it seemed to him it had been getting worse.

      “Where you headed?” Al asked.

      “British Columbia?” Father David answered, though he hadn’t intended it to sound like a question.

      Al took off his cap and scratched at his temple, running his hand around to the back of his head. He replaced his cap. “I don’t think so,” he said.

      “You don’t think so?” Father David asked.

      “I don’t think she’s going to British Columbia,” Al said, matter-of-factly “I doubt she’ll make it.”

      The problem, Al explained, was that it was a four-cylinder car that was probably running on only three cylinders. The reason for that, Al suspected, was a cracked cylinder head, a problem that was only going to get worse and that would be putting pressure on the other cylinders in the meantime. Father David could wind up with a two-cylinder car.

      “I’m not sure I’d be wanting to drive through the mountains on two cylinders,” Al concluded.

      “Well, can you fix it?” Father David asked.

      “Yup, I think so,” Al replied.

      “Great. So how long would that take, do you think?” Father David asked, feeling hopeful.