Balance of Power

FORTY-TWO

The music room of the palace was dark. However, there was enough light coming in from the corridor to allow Father Norberto to see the man slouched in the corner on the floor. He was gravely wounded. There were splashes of blood on him, on his clothes, and on the wall behind him. Fresh blood continued to pour from gashes on his cheek, forehead, and mouth. There were several raw, bloody wounds in his legs and chest.

Father Norberto could literally feel the presence of Death — just as he had when he knelt like this beside his brother. The sensation was always the same, whether Father Norberto was ministering to the terminally ill or holding the hand of someone who had been fatally injured. Death had a sweet, vaguely metallic scent that filled the nostrils and poisoned the stomach. The priest could almost feel Death’s touch. It was like a cool, invisible smoke chilling the air and seeping into his flesh, his bones, his soul.

Death had come for this man. As Norberto’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see what a miracle it was that the man still lived. The monsters who had imprisoned him in this room had shot, beaten, and burned him without mercy or restraint.

For what? Norberto wondered with bitter indignation. For information? For vengeance? For amusement?

Whatever the reason, it couldn’t justify this. And in a Catholic nation, a nation that purportedly lived by the Decalogue and by the teachings of Jesus Christ, what his captors had done was a mortal sin. For their crimes they would live outside of God’s grace for eternity.

Not that that would help this poor man. Father Norberto lowered himself to his knees beside the dying prisoner. He pushed the man’s sweat-dampened hair from his forehead and touched his bloody cheek.

The prisoner opened his eyes. There was no sparkle in them; only confusion and pain. They drifted down the priest’s robe and then returned to his eyes. He tried to lift his arm. Father Norberto caught his trembling hand and held it between his own hands.

“My son,” said Norberto. “I am Father Norberto.”

The man looked up. “Father — what… is happening?”

“You’ve been hurt,” Norberto said. “Just rest quietly.”

“Hurt? How badly?”

“Be still,” Norberto said softly. He squeezed the man’s hand and smiled down at him. “What is your name?”

“I am Juan… Martinez.”

“I am Father Norberto. Do you wish to make a confession?”

Juan looked around. His eyes were darting and afraid. “Father… am I… dying?”

Norberto did not reply. He only held Juan’s hand tighter.

“But how can this… be?” Juan asked. “There is no pain.”

“God is merciful,” Norberto said.

Juan clutched the priest’s fingers. His eyes shut slowly. “Father — if God is merciful, then I pray… He will forgive my sins.”

“He will forgive only if you repent sincerely,” Norberto replied. In the distance he heard guns popping with less frequency. There would be many others who needed God’s comfort — and His forgiveness. Pressing his cross to the lips of the wounded man, Norberto asked, “Are you truly sorry for having offended God with all the sins of your past life?”

Juan kissed the cross. “I am truly sorry,” he said contritely and with great effort. “I have killed… many men. Some at a radio station. Another in a room — a fisherman.”

Norberto felt Death turn and laugh at him. He had never experienced anything so cruel or punishing as this moment — the realization that the hand nestled in his was the hand that had slain his brother.

Norberto’s eyes were points of rage in a sea of ice. They burned into the man before him as though he were the Devil himself. Father Norberto wanted desperately to throw the man’s hand aside and watch him slide into eternal damnation, unconfessed and unsaved.

This man murdered my brother—

“The killings had to be,” Juan choked. His hand was shaking and he clutched Norberto’s fingers harder. “But… I am truly sorry for them.”

Norberto shut his eyes. His teeth were locked and trembling, his hand unresponsive to Juan’s touch. Yet he fought the urge to drop this hand that had snuffed out Adolfo’s life. As much as he was a grieving brother he was also a father ordained in the sight of God.

“Father—” Juan coughed. “Help… me to say… the words.”

Norberto drew air through his teeth. It is not necessary that I forgive him. Forgiveness is the province of God.

The priest opened his eyes and glared down at the bruised face and broken body sprawled before him. “Father, forgive me my transgressions,” Norberto said coldly, “for which I am truly repentant.”

“I… repent,” Juan rasped. “I… repent… truly.” Juan shut his eyes. His breath came in short gasps.

“Sins forgiven are removed from the soul, restoring the sinner to a state of sanctifying grace,” Norberto said. “May God forgive you your trespasses and deliver you unto salvation.”

Juan’s lips parted slowly. There was a short sigh. Then there was nothing more.

Norberto continued to stare down at the dead man. Juan’s hand was cold. Blood continued to trickle from his chest and cheek.

Norberto could not justify or forgive what this man had done. But Adolfo had gone fishing in a sea where the prey fight back. If Juan had not slain his brother then someone else would have. Tears filled Norberto’s eyes. He should have stopped it with Adolfo.

If only he had known about his brother’s other life. If only he’d been less harsh then perhaps Adolfo wouldn’t have been afraid to come to him. Why did he let him go out that night? Why didn’t he stay with him when he went to deliver that audiotape, the tape that helped to start all of this. Why didn’t I act when there was still time? And the worst punishment of all was that he had not been able to save his brother’s soul — only that of his killer.

“Oh, God,” Norberto said, letting his head roll back and tears fall freely. He set Juan’s hand down beside his body and covered his own eyes.

As Father Norberto knelt there he felt Death leave — though it did not go very far. The priest forced himself to stop crying. This was not the time to mourn Adolfo or to damn his own failings. There were others who needed comfort or absolution — others who may have acted arrogantly in the bloom of life, only to find humility in the face of eternal damnation.

Father Norberto rose. He made the sign of the cross above Juan Martinez. “May God forgive you,” he said softly.

And may God forgive me, Father Norberto thought as he turned and left the room. He hated the man who had just died. But in his heart, in the deepest and truest part of him, he hoped that God had heard his repentance.

There had been enough damnation for one day.