She is beautiful. I love to watch her sleep—her copper hair spread out on the pillow—face pink as a child’s.
I’m amazed she married me—she had her pick, but chose me.
Her hair is brighter than any autumn leaf and her freckles endearing, although I can’t tell her that—she’d get embarrassed.
Cyn’s like that.
So, here I sit, on a chill October morning, watching the orange and yellow leaf that fluttered in our apartment window, pale and grow dim, compared with Cyn’s more glorious fire.
“How long have you been up?” she asks, stretching out lazily, tossing off covers.
“Not long, Cinnamon.” The nickname suits her—brown eyes, freckles and copper hair.
“No coffee?” She frowns.
“Thought we’d go out.”
“Okay,” she smiles. The room lights up—Stupid me—thinking, the sun was out. It’s not, until she gets up.
Later that day I meet with Susan Hargraves—she’s an attorney from a rival firm and is beautiful as she's brilliantly gifted in law.
Rumour has it she’s about to be named a provincial judge. She’ll probably preside over my defence of a local priest accused of negligent homicide.
We dated back in undergrad, but that’s all behind us now. Now, it’s just professional collegiality—touching base over several related cases, but occasionally, I sense she expects something more.
“So, you love your wife,” Suze smiles.
“Guilty as charged, Your Honour.”
“Hey—they haven’t appointed me yet,” she cautions, probably afraid of invoking some bad karma—Suze is superstitious like that.
We’re out for coffee and Suze is making small talk when I know what’s really on her mind.
I look round the patio and see a vista of red autumn trees.
We’re in the middle of High Park at the Grenadier Restaurant—named after a regiment of British soldiers that supposedly drowned sometime in the 1800’s trying to cross the pond in the middle of winter.
I sometimes think I hear their ghostly voices calling to me.
“Earth to Jake—are you in there?”
She likes to tease me—thinks I’m ‘adorable’—partly because I’m a daydreamer and partly because I’m a poet.
Attorneys are not supposed to be poets—not even poetasters—especially defence attorneys.
“So, how fares the defence of Father Malachi?”
She can’t fool me. She’s pretending interest in spreading orange marmalade on her English crumpet, but I know she’s measuring my response.
“I’m thinking of having Mephistopheles testify—I’d subpoena Lucifer, but he’s outside our jurisdiction.”
She frowns as if displeased with her culinary tastes.
“I hate marmalade—don’t know why I eat it. I also hate religious trials—never know which way they’re going to go.”
“The Cardinal thinks otherwise—hiring a Bay Street law firm—obviously doesn’t want a prolonged, controversial litigation.”
Her eyes narrow. “Negligent homicide—that’s pretty heavy.”
“Not Father Malachi’s fault—had no idea the parents were starving out the demon or that Lisle was off her meds.”
The trial’s drawn international attention—the media comparing it to The Exorcism of Emily Rose.
The Church is being portrayed as backward, relying on a medieval worldview, attributing mental illness to demonic possession.
But I’ve seen the tapes of the exorcism—complete with discarnate voices arguing over the girl’s soul, Apports and Lisle levitating off the bed. In one frame, devil faces stare in the windows.
Medieval? I don’t think so.
Suze is slowly spreading marmalade again.
“The Crown Prosecutor will probably hope for a judgment and a fine—a warning to the Church to back off future witch hunts.”
“Is that what you think this is?” I respond hotly. “That doesn’t do justice to either the Church’s position or the reputation of Father Malachi.”
She raises her eyebrows, surprised at my emoting.
“He took a huge risk, Jake—could have proceeded more slowly.”
I’m already shaking my head. “You know how these things go, Suze—yeah, they could have dragged it out and made the girl suffer for seven years—like some of the cases I’ve seen.”
“Yeah, too bad they didn’t—the girl’s dead.”
“A seizure brought about by her own parents’ ignorance—starving her and withholding her meds—totally convinced she just needed spiritual intervention.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been saying, Jake?”
“No, damn it!” I slam my fist on the table and the silverware jumps. A few nearby diners move to other tables.
“Nicely done,” she smirks. “That’ll win you points at trial.”
“I’m sorry,” I lower my voice to a harsh whisper. “Lisle was on anti-convulsive meds and severely dehydrated and malnourished. Then her parents suddenly took her off her drugs. She had a seizure and a coronary event—not Father Malachi’s fault.”
“Maybe not, but then again, he could have insisted on a doctor being present.”
“A doctor was present, and this was only the second session—he spent at most, six hours in total with her.”
“I’m sure the Crown attorney won’t see it that way. Face it, Jake—this is going to be a career buster. I’m surprised you took the case.”
“Yeah well, I admire Father Malachi and I’m not going to see him hung out to dry.”
“You may have no choice,” She cautions.
She's right--this could be a career buster, but sometimes you have to draw a line.
I lean back in my chair and look at the trees. The blood red Maples look ominous in the morning haze.
I shiver visualizing Grenadier skeletons in the murky depths of the pond and The Awful Monster’s leering face.
.........
It’s past midnight and I’m still up, preparing Father Malachi’s case.
The orange hunter moon stares at me through the black window.
Suddenly, a high-pitched shriek splits the silence.
“No—Get away!” Cyn’s screaming from the bed and my blood freezes.
I’m out of the study and into the bedroom. I grab Cyn and shake her awake. She’s sobbing and gasping.
“Shh, it’s okay—just a bad dream,” I tell her.
She’s trembling like a leaf, clinging for dear life. Sobs wrack her body. I hold her and let her cry.
Eventually, the spasms abate, her body goes calm and the room gets quiet.
“Can you talk now?”
She nods.
“Do you want me to get you a drink?”
“No!” her fingers coil tightly around my wrist, nails digging into my skin. “Don’t leave me.”
“Okay, I won’t go—I’m here.”
Her eyes are frantic and wild—hair disheveled and damp with sweat.
“What happened?”
“Faces—a parade of…hideous faces.” She begins to cry.
“It was a nightmare,” I whisper softly.
“NO!” she shouts, “I’m telling you, Jake, it was real. This demon talked to me in this robotic voice—it was horrible.”
“What did he say?”
“It was so dark—I was frantic—I wanted to turn on the lamp, but I couldn’t move. It was like he was wrestling with me.”
“I’m sorry, Cyn.”
“He mocked me, Jake. He said, ‘You want to see light? Then let the Phantasmagoric Vision begin.’ And then a parade of demonic faces began—all leering at me. They were cackling like witches, saying, ‘I want to be as good as you’ and they were sneering.”
I wrapped my arms around her, swaddling her and holding her securely.
“You know the worse part, Jake? I was totally vulnerable—I had no defence against them.”
She begins to cry again.
I hold her until we’re both tired and then I lie down beside her and press my body against hers, holding her throughout the night.
In the morning, I phone Father Malachi. He’s at our door within the hour.
“Is it Lisle, Father—has she come to torment me?” Cyn wails.
“No Child,” He says softly, so gently, I can barely hear him.
“It’s warfare—spiritual warfare—directed at me, but targeting you.”
“ME? Why ME?” Cyn cries.
The priest speaks patiently, as if talking to a frightened child.
“Jake’s defending me and demons are great watchers—they know our points of maximum vulnerability. They could have come after him, but they chose you.”
“Why—because I’m weak?”
“Because you’re Jake’s vulnerability. He loves you, Cyn. They know he’ll do anything to protect you.”
“You mean, give up defending you?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” she hisses. I watch her face and the set of her jaw. Cyn’s digging in.
Father Malachi looks at me.
I shrug. “She won’t let me give up, Father.”
“He’s right,” Cyn says. “Now that I see what that poor girl went through, I’m not letting the devil win.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
Cyn nods, her jaw thrust forward and a defiant light in her eyes.
The priest relents.
“I know you’re a believer, Cyn, so now I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself against the wiles of the devil.”
“Will it work even while I sleep?”
“It will,” he says, patting her hand.
Cyn’s beautiful. I love to watch her sleep—her copper hair spread out on the pillow—face pink as a child’s.
I’m amazed she married me—she had her pick, but chose me.
Her hair is brighter than any autumn leaf and her freckles endearing, although I can’t tell her that—she’d get embarrassed. She’s like that.
Warm and fed and tucked away from the wet blackness she sleeps, while the wind rattles the window through the lonely watch I keep.
Watch and pray. Watch and pray.
From now on, and maybe forever, it will always be this way.
