Sebastian walked through the house. The living and dining areas had been converted to the parish secretary’s office and his private office. No, not his anymore … Father Peter’s.
“Forgive me, Lord,” he muttered as he turned on the entry light. Yes, his pride and jealousy were coming through. He had thought he’d conquered those vices decades ago, but turning over his parish to another, younger priest had brought back emotions he thought he’d never feel again. Along with the sick sensation that his life was over.
For seventy-one, Sebastian was a healthy man. He drank in moderation, had never smoked, and exercised regularly—except on days like today when his arthritis would prevent him from doing much more than walking. His life wasn’t over. He could still celebrate Mass during the busy seasons, he could still participate in the church, he could volunteer. Play golf. He almost laughed at the thought. He’d never picked up a golf club in his life. Perhaps he could volunteer at a church high school as a coach. He would enjoy that, working with youths and teaching them. There were options. He wasn’t dead yet.
Sebastian unlocked the door and stepped onto the small porch. It was a chilly morning, the first sign that autumn was approaching. Later that day it would again be hot, but the morning was refreshing.
He looked around. His body may be failing, but his eyesight was not. The streetlights in front of the church didn’t reveal anything suspicious. No one was climbing over the section of the fence he could see. Father Peter was still sleeping: as he’d walked through the kitchen, he’d noticed that the coffee had yet to be made. The young priest would rise by six to prepare for the morning Mass. Sebastian had never acquired the taste for coffee, though he enjoyed tea.
He heard a faint cry—it sounded like a baby. This early in the morning? A parishioner, perhaps, needing solace?
He walked slowly down the porch stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of light in the dark. He turned and looked down. It wasn’t a light; it was a white cloth, left under the statue of Saint Elizabeth.
Sebastian bent down to pick it up. At the same time he noticed there was something moving beneath the cloth, he heard a murmur.
The murmur turned into a weak cry.
Dear Lord, what is this?
Of course he knew.
A baby.
A newborn.
Sebastian ignored the pain and creaks in his joints as he knelt in the dirt and picked the baby and the blanket up from the cold earth. Holding the infant close to his chest with one large hand, he used the statue as leverage to rise again, then walked back to the house. The child’s cries were muted. Sebastian barely gave the mother or circumstances a thought, not then. The poor soul in his arms was his immediate concern.
Headlights approached from the south end of the street. The high beams were on and the car drove slowly. Sebastian hurried back inside and closed the door. He bolted it, not quite certain why his heart was pounding. He didn’t turn on any lights, over and above what he’d already turned on before going outside. He didn’t want to draw attention to the small rectory behind the church.
The baby started crying again, its sound weak and sickly. Or was it? Sebastian knew little about babies. He’d blessed babies, he’d baptised babies and—on sad days—buried babies. Was the child hungry? What did one feed a newborn when there was no mother?
He took the baby across the hall to his room and turned on his nightstand light. He put the baby on the bed and opened the cloth. It was a shirt, not a blanket—and there was a lot of blood. He prayed without realizing the words were coming from his lips as he inspected the infant. The child didn’t appear to be bleeding, though the umbilical cord was still attached. It had been tied off, but looked unusually large and swollen. Was this common?
He took a clean undershirt from his drawer and wrapped the baby. She was a girl, a perfect, small human child. So delicate, so fragile … who would just leave her on the cold ground? Did the blood come from her mother? The umbilical cord was tied, which meant someone had cut the cord, tied it as a doctor or nurse would. But this baby had no wrist or ankle band; this baby hadn’t been born in a hospital. This baby had been born tonight, possibly only hours ago.
“Saint Elizabeth, please pray for this child laid at your feet tonight,” Sebastian said as he picked up the baby. He held her close. He had never had a child, but the protective instincts must have been granted to all God’s creatures, because Sebastian felt that he would do anything for this little soul. “Elizabeth,” he whispered and rocked the baby stiffly in his arms.
Sebastian looked down on the bed. Tangled in the bloody shirt that the child had been wrapped in was a necklace of some sort. He picked it up.