Between the Devil and Me.

“Father, do you talk to God?”

Father Moran looked at him as if he made a joke that hadn’t hit home. Perhaps the answer was so obvious that it didn’t warrant a response. The man tried to elaborate, but what he was trying to convey wasn’t something simple.

“What I mean is, when you talk to God, do you get an answer back?”

“Ah, I see. Many hear God’s words, but they are not always spoken. They could come in the form of a feeling of acknowledgement, or even a sign. Does that make sense?”

“You misunderstand, Father. This is a direct question. Have you and God ever communicated?”

Father Moran found his mind unwillingly pulled back to a day when he was eight years old. He had been approached by an old man in a clean suit who had told him that the spark of the divine reverberated deep within the young boy’s soul. It had been that moment that had made him follow the wishes of his old Irish father to join the priesthood. He had been convinced this old man had been God appearing in human form, or at least one of his angels. The fact that his father died soon after this was God allowing his father’s soul to finally rest in eternal peace. That he had finished what God had intended for him in the mortal life. Even though Father Moran had dedicated his entire being to his faith, with age his belief of having been in direct contact with God had faded. He’d dismissed the old man as a zealous Catholic, or perhaps a loon. That his father’s passing at that time had been nothing but a coincidence. But now, with his mind pushing the memory to the forefront of his consciousness, he began to debate its validity once again.

“There was one time, yes, I believe…”

“And you believe in Satan? Not as a metaphor for evil, but a real physical being?”

“Son, I’m not sure I understand where this is going.”

“The thing is, Father…I think.” He paused. “He’s speaking to me, Father. The Devil talks to me.”

Father Moran’s expression turned from faux concern to genuine disgust. He stood silent for a moment, then motioned with his arm towards the door.

“I think you should leave.”

He placed his free hand on the man’s shoulder, gently forcing his exit, when he noticed how violently the man’s hands were shaking.

“…you’re not joking, are you? You truly believe the Devil talks to you.”

Father Moran sat back down and cupped his hands around the man’s to lessen the shaking. They had shaken this way since the first time Satan had spoken, the man explained. It happened always at night. He feared the whole thing could be nothing but dreams. That these visions were detailing the onset of some form of insanity. This weighed heavily on his mind, as much as the fear it could all be real.

He explained the dreams in detail to Father Moran. Of being approached by an old man in a clean suit. A man who did not fit within the dream. An uninvited stranger who claimed he was the Devil, and wanted him to find someone who could communicate with God.

Father Moran’s complexion had dipped to a dull grey.

“Why doesn’t he talk to God himself?”

“God won’t listen. It seems God’s ears are deaf to the voice of Satan.”

The priest released the man’s hands and looked uneasily around the church.

“My child, please come with me.”

He led the man to a raised bowl near the entrance of the church. Whilst making the sign of the cross he muttered a few words in Latin and then asked the man to place his hand in the bowl. After a few seconds the water began to boil. Even with his hand submerged, the man said he felt no pain. Father Moran tried to keep calm, but his distress was obvious. He dipped his own finger into the bowl and reacted to the heat.

“Okay. I believe what you say. I’m not sure what I can do, if God will even listen to the words of Satan, but I’ll try. What was the message?”

“He wants to say sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes, Father. He said that he’s sorry for ever defying God, that his heart is still filled with love for God. He wants to apologise for what he called his greatest mistake.”

“He wants to apologise? If he is truly sorry, then why has he continued to pour such evil into the world?”

“You don’t understand, Father. He said that he tempted Eve with the forbidden fruit out of jealousy. He was upset that he had been left to rot in hell while God showered love upon his new creation. He wanted to taint God’s human handiwork to show that even something born of God’s love could make mistakes. He said all evil that has come after has not been his doing, but a consequence of that day. That a Pandora’s Box of evil opened when Eve ate that fruit. He said he has spent millennia wracked with the guilt of his mistake and that he seeks forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for Satan?”

“He comes to me every night, Father. He comes with tears in his eyes and his hands shaking as you see mine doing now. He says he can no longer continue without God’s love and that he’s scared of what he might do.”

Father Moran fell silent. He stared at the floor, shaking his head.

“No. I cannot. I refuse to ask God to forgive the Devil.”

“But, Father, doesn’t the bible teach forgiveness for all who seek it?”

“I do not care! I will not aid Satan!”

He shot to his feet and ejected the man from the church. The man turned back to see Father Moran fall to his knees and start weeping hysterically.

Three weeks later, Father Moran was found dead within the church. It had been exactly forty years since the day his father had died. It was determined the cause of death was a heart attack.