Bastet

“Damn,” Charlie muttered as he brushed the scalding coffee from his pants. His hand trembled as he lowered the overfilled mug to the desktop. A ring of coffee quickly pooled around the base.

“I’m sorry, Jenny. I know you hate it when I curse,” Charlie said.

He reached into his lap and stroked the head of his cat. She gazed at him with an expression a human might have recognized as concern.

When the doorbell chimed, Charlie started, and the cat instantly jumped to the floor.

“Who is it?” he called.

“It’s Father Brennan.”

“Aw jeez,” Charlie whispered.

He stood slowly and then began shuffling to the door, wincing at the sharp stab of pain in his hip. “Just a moment!” Charlie shouted.

The heavy door creaked open to reveal a grinning Father Brennan, resplendent in his black cassock. Charlie forced a smile in return. “Good morning, Father. What brings you here?”

“Nothing in particular, Charlie. I just thought I’d stop by. You’ve been in town for more than a month and I still haven’t seen you at Mass.”

“You may be right,” Charlie replied, still holding the smile.

Several seconds passed in awkward silence. “Mind if I come in?” Father Brennan said at last.

“Oh!” Charlie sputtered. “Of course.”

Charlie led Father Brennan back to his study, quickening his pace despite the pain. The priest seemed distracted; his gaze wandered through the rooms and hallways as they walked.

“Would you like some coffee?” Charlie asked.

“Ah, no. No thank you,” Father Brennan replied. When they reached the study, Charlie gestured to a nearby chair.

“So,” Charlie said as he eased into his favorite recliner, “you’ve missed me, eh?”

“I’ve missed you. More importantly, God has missed you.”

“The devil you say!” Charlie laughed. “If God is looking for me, tell Him I’m right here. Every summer!”

Father Brennan shook his head and smiled. “You know what I mean, Charlie. You’ve summered in Watch Hill—ah, how long has it been now?”

“Ten years, Father.”

“Yes, that was what Brother Markus told me. Ten years you’ve been summering at this pleasant little cabin and each of those years you’ve been a presence in our church. This summer is different, however. It seems as though you’ve given up on the blessings of the joyful mysteries.”

Charlie shook a gnarled finger. “Not true, Father. I participate in joyful mysteries you can’t imagine.”

“Indeed,” Father Brennan said with a slight frown. “You mean something more miraculous than the body and blood of Christ?”

“I didn’t know there were degrees of the miraculous,” Charlie replied. “I mean, it is a miracle, or it isn’t, right?”

“Well, if you have witnessed a miracle, Charlie, tell me about it.”

The cat strolled up to the priest and gently rubbed its head against his leg. “Such a beautiful kitty,” he said as he gently scratched its chin. He noticed a prominent mark on its forehead, like a black uppercase M. “What is his name?”

“ Her name is Nedjem,” Charlie replied.

Father Brennan chucked. “Really? How did you come up with that?”

“I didn’t. She told me.”

“Told you, did she?” Father Brennan said.

“Well, kind of. When I first saw her the name just came into my mind.”

Father Brennan drew a breath and held it for a moment. “She seems to be an unusual breed. At first, I thought she was an ordinary tabby, but that silvery fur and dark spots … very odd.”

Nedjem narrowed her green eyes and then abruptly looked away. “My nephew thinks she is an Egyptian Mau.”

“Never heard of that breed,” Father Brennan said as he watched Nedjem returning to Charlie, her tail raised as if in salute.

Charlie reached for a small wooden box that rested on a nearby table. “This, Father, is my miracle.”

He raised the lid tenderly and smiled. “Jenny brought this back from our visit to Egypt several years ago.” He lifted a tiny clay sculpture of a cat’s head. The head was entirely black with large eyes of what appeared to be inlaid jade. The ears were sharply erect, although one ear was missing its tip.

Father Brennan leaned forward and shook his head. “That’s remarkable. Is it –”

“Real? Oh, yes. You are in the presence of Bastet, the daughter of Ra and Isis. This likeness is 3,000 years old. Jenny had it confirmed by a friend at Yale.”

“No doubt it is very important to you.”

Charlie frowned. “Perhaps not in the way you think. A couple of weeks after Jenny passed, I began carrying it with me when I went out to my garden at dawn. It was like having a little piece of Jenny with me.”

He turned the bust to face him and seemed to gaze into its eyes. “One morning, I don’t exactly when, I began hearing things.”

“Hearing things?”

Charlie ignored the question. “And whenever I hear the voice, Nedjem appears. She keeps me company from dawn to dusk. I have no idea where she goes at night, but each morning after I plant my aged butt into the garden chair, she emerges from the tall grass like magic. Never fails.”

Father Brennan pressed his lips together and stifled a sigh. “So, the miracle is the voice, and Nedjem’s emergence from the weeds?”

“Please don’t speak to me like a child, Father. I may be old, but I still have a firm grip on sanity. This is sound – honest-to-god sound. I can even hear it in Nedjem’s purring.”

“What does the voice say?”

“I don’t know. It’s gibberish. As best I can tell, it sounds like ‘maat kheru.’”

Father Brennan supressed the urge to shake his head. “You hear this at dawn and no one else is present. Just you and the bust of Bastet? And Nedjem?”

Charlie gingerly returned the bust to its box. “Nice try, Father, but no cigar. This isn’t the delusion of a grief-stricken old fool.”

“It isn’t Jenny’s voice?”

“Oh, hell no,” Charlie said. “Don’t you think I’d recognize the sound of my wife’s voice?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply this was … a manifestation of senility.”

“Father, you’re a young priest. How many years have passed since you were ordained?”

“Five years, Charlie.”

“Ha! That’s a short nap to a guy like me. You are full to the brim with academic learning, but woefully short on life experience. When you’re young it seems as though all the old folks are crazy. Some of us are, but not all. We just tend to become a little eccentric as we approach the edge of the yawning abyss.”

“Ah,” Father Brennan said as he held up his hand. “What the Church offers is a reprieve from that abyss. You don’t need to search for God in your garden, Charlie. He is present at every Mass, if only you’d—”

“What? Show up and eat the wafer?”

“Attend Mass and partake of the Eucharist.”

Charlie shook his head and sighed. “Father, you believe that during Mass the bread and wine become the body and blood of Jesus, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you believe this without any proof whatsoever.”

“That’s the essence of faith, Charlie.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Charlie snapped. “The existence of ghosts and the notion of trans…uh…”

“Transubstantiation.”

“…are both believed by many people without a single shred of proof. Neither idea can withstand the test of science. How is it that you choose to believe one and not the other?”

Father Brennan smiled. “That’s it exactly, Charlie. I choose. Faith is a choice. My belief in transubstantiation is my choice.”

Charlie jerked his thumb at the box. “And my dawn communion with Nedjem and Bastet is my choice.”

Father Brennan nodded slowly. “Does the voice speak the same words each time?”

“Yes. And it is always gentle and reassuring. Just the sound of it brings me great peace.”

“I have to say, that certainly sounds like God.”

“Indeed, it does. And it is definitely not Jenny. The voice only speaks to me here, and only during my summer visits. I never hear it in my winter home in Miami, and I’ve surely been listening.”

Father Brennan nodded and smiled. “I have to confess, Charlie. It was Father Moran at Our Lady of Fatima in Miami who alerted me about…your changing habits.”

“That old fool should keep to himself.”

“Don’t be too hard on Father Moran. He knew you and Jenny for a long time. He cares about you, and he is concerned.”

“So, he wanted you to spy on me,” Charlie snapped.

“Something like that.”

“Well, you tell the good Father that I’m enjoying my summer sabbatical very much, thank you. Tell him that I am still in possession of all my marbles.”

Father Brennan glanced at his wristwatch. “I am going to be late for an appointment, Charlie. I need to get moving.” He stood suddenly and grasped Charlie hands.

“Don’t try to get up, Charlie. I can see your pain, the physical and spiritual.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Father.”

“You’re a remarkable person, Charlie. You’ve had a long life. You survived a stroke that probably would have killed most men. Then you lost Jenny, but still you persevere.”

“That’s because I am garrulous old barnacle,” Charlie said as he gently pulled his hands free. He struggled to get to his feet.

“No, no,” Father Brennan said as he pressed Charlie’s shoulder. “I can find my own way out. Before I go, though, will you at least allow me to bring you a consecrated Host tomorrow? If you won’t come to the Mass, Jesus can come to you.”

Charlie sighed. “Tell you what, come by with a Host at 5:00 AM tomorrow morning. If you’ll listen with an open mind, I’ll eat the Host. You’ll find me about 50 feet beyond the edge of my garden.”

“Deal,” Father Brennan replied. “See you in the morning.”

******

Dawn arrived with an overcast sky. The milky glow spilled across the deserted landscape, slipping silently through the trees and houses. Lights appeared in scattered windows while dogs barked in anticipation of breakfast.

At Charlie’s home, the night was still in reluctant retreat, so Father Brennan chose his steps carefully as he made his way through the shadows. The fingers of his right hand enclosed the cold brass of the pyx, within which dwelled the Blessed Sacrament. The Host seemed to radiate faint warmth in defiance of the breeze. Father Brennan tightened his grip and smiled.

During the drive from the church, he had considered how he would handle the situation. What if Charlie continued to hear voices? This would almost certainly mean dementia or even schizophrenia. Should he try to convince Charlie to see a doctor? No, Father Brennan decided. The best approach would be to allow Charlie to continue his comforting fantasy. Arguing would only increase the gulf between them.

“Charlie is harmless,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe with a little persistence on my part, the old guy will come around. This is a good start.”

Father Brennan walked past a rusted Ford pickup truck and turned to follow a dirt path that wound behind the garage and into the yard beyond. He was tempted to call out to Charlie, but the neighboring houses were still dark. Instead, he deliberately crunched the dry grass under his shoes, making what he hoped was enough noise to signal his approach.

In the gloom he could see a white Adirondack chair resting incongruently in the middle of a patch of spike grass. Charlie was seated in the chair underneath a bright red umbrella. Nedjem was nestled in his lap.

“Good morning, Charlie!” Father Brennan called softly. There was no response.

By now Father Brennan could see him clearly. Charlie was wearing a loose windbreaker jacket and leaning against the left-hand side of the chair. A green John Deer baseball cap covered the top of his head and he seemed to be peering downward as if in deep concentration.

“You certainly look comfortable, Charlie,” Father Brennan said. He placed his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, but Charlie remained utterly still.

“Charlie?” Father Brennan called, much louder this time. He was answered with silence.

Father Brennan quickly knelt beside the chair. Even in the gray dawn he could see glazed, half-open eyes set in an ashen face. Father Brennan drew a sharp breath and fumbled through the jacket to find Charlie’s hand. He lifted it free and pressed his fingers to the wrist. The flesh was still warm, but there was no pulse.

“Oh, Charlie,” Father Brennan sighed as his made the sign of the cross. “I’m so sorry.”

Nedjem stood and stretched. After bowing to lick Charlie’s hand, she uttered a single high-pitched cry. Father Brennan reached out to calm her, but she leaped to the ground and disappeared into the dense grass.

******

“Good morning, Father. They told me I’d find you here.” Angelina stepped to the side of Father Brennan’s wicker chair and gently handed him a steaming cup of cocoa.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said softly.

“Do you always come out here so early?” she asked.

“Yes. I enjoy the dawn. This time of day has a unique spiritual quality, don’t you think?”

Angelina turned to look at the pink stain creeping into the eastern sky. “I suppose so, Father. Do you always make your morning devotions here? You seem so lonely out in the middle of the garden.”

“When I was a young priest, I gained a deep appreciation for the dawn. That fondness has grown even more powerful in my twilight years.”

Angelina shook her head. “I don’t know, Father. A man of your age should not be exposed to the cold and damp like this. Let me help you back to the rectory. I’m about to put together a nice hot breakfast for you and the other Fathers.”

“Give me a few more minutes and I’ll be along. Tell Father Jackson that my arthritis is acting up this morning. I’d appreciate it if he would celebrate the 7 o’clock Mass.”

“Sure, Father. Don’t be long or I will have to come back and drag you inside, with or without your arthritis.”

Father Brennan chuckled and waved her off. He watched as she disappeared through the kitchen door.

The edge of the sun was just about to crest the horizon. He made the sign of the cross, and then gently removed the felt cloth that covered the ancient bust. He gently stroked its ears, the cold clay smooth and comforting on his skin.

Father Brennan recalled the moment, a 60 years ago, when Charlie’s nephew met him outside the church after Charlie’s funeral Mass. He had rushed through the stream of mourners and presented the wooden box like an offering gift, holding it reverently in both hands.

“I spoke with my uncle on the telephone the night before he passed away. He said that when he died, he wanted you to have this. It was so kind of you to make the effort to be there that morning.”

Father Brennan’s first impulse had been to politely refuse, but something made him accept the battered box. He muttered the usual phrases about wishing he had arrived sooner, then quickly blessed the nephew, and left for the gravesite.

For decades the box sat in his office, alone but never quite forgotten. When he retired to the Church of the Incarnation, Father Brennan finally brought the bust to a parishioner who was an experienced Egyptologist. He marveled at its condition and confirmed that it was indeed a likeness of Bastet, probably dating to what he called the Third Intermediate Period.

“I’ve seen many of these, Father, although most aren’t this pristine.”

Father Brennan felt an odd twinge at that moment, something he could not describe. He had considered allowing the parishioner to keep the bust, but suddenly he changed his mind.

As he was leaving, he hesitated at the doorway. “Are you familiar with the expression ‘maat kheru?’”

“Of course,” the parishioner said. “It’s ancient Egyptian. There isn’t a direct translation to English, but it conveys the idea that all is as it should be. You know, balance, order, fulfillment. Where did you hear that?”

Father Brennan nodded as he stepped outside. “From an old friend, long ago.”

As Angelina clattered the breakfast plates and silverware, Father Brennan closed his eyes and cradled the bust of Bastet in his hands. Soon he felt a familiar nudge against his leg. The silver Mau looked up with loving anticipation.

“Good morning, Nedjem,” he whispered. The cat jumped into his lap, circled once, settled down, and then began grooming its fur.

Father Brennan had once asked his parishioner about the origin of the name. “More ancient Egyptian,” he had replied with a chuckle. “Nedjem means ‘the sweet one.’”

He drew his finger across the black M on Nedjem’s forehead. His rational mind reminded him that what he experienced on these blissful mornings was impossible, but he had ceased questioning years ago. Instead, he embraced Nedjem’s purring warmth and drifted with the soothing voice of the infinite.

Maat kheru … maat kheru…

THE END

Bio: "I am a retired non-fiction writer and editor. Until my retirement three years ago, I was editor-in-chief of QST magazine (https://www.arrl.org/qst). I still do freelance writing for QST and other publications. I've also published several short fiction stories and one novel."

E-mail: Steven Ford

Website: Steven Ford's Novel

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