Fort Freak by George R. R. Martin

Author:George R. R. Martin [Martin, George R. R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

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Faith

Part 2.

OCTOBER, 2010

FATHER SQUID WASN’T MUCH of a drinker even in his wild days, and now, he thought, it was too late to turn for solace in that direction.

He sat alone in the small, comfortably furnished living room of his rectory, the only light in the room the soft glow of his television set, tuned to a Knicks game with the sound off. He watched the patterns made by the players as they ran back and forth, up and down the court, without comprehension. His mind was still occupied with the conversation he’d had with Storgman who was, unwittingly perhaps, dogging the ghosts of his past with the determination of a bloodhound on the scent.

DECEMBER, 1978

Dorian Wilde leaped to his feet, threw his hands up in the air, and let out an exasperated cry that sounded something like “Hnnngghhh!” He clutched at his flowing, greasy hair with his right hand. The tentacles that made up his left just twitched animatedly and dripped a foul-smelling goo over the sleeve of his Edwardian jacket.

“No! No! NO!” he yelled up at the actors on the makeshift stage. He wasn’t happy. “I know,” he said to the batrachian joker playing Balthasar, “that you’re a simple bouncer in a common bar, but you are supposed to be one of the Wise Men, not a wise guy. If you cannot speak the lines I have written with eloquence and passion, at least try to remove those atrocious Brooklyn accents from your voice. Again!”

The joker cleared his throat and said, “Hark! We gotta follo yonda star to da manager—”

Dorian tore at his hair again and groaned, “Manger! Manger! Manger!” He glared at Father Squid. “George Bernard Shaw never had to put up with this!”

“I’m sure he had his problems too,” Father Squid said mildly.

“You simply must get me better quality actors—for the important roles, anyway,” Wilde complained. “These hacks simply are not believable as Wise Men.”

Father Squid sighed. Never in a million years would he have believed when he’d decided to take the cloth that one of his duties would be that of casting director. But there it was.

“It’s hopeless,” a pessimistic Wilde commented.

“Nonsense,” Father Squid said. “It’s going splendidly. They just need a little more practice.”

Wilde grunted gloomily.

“It’s late and I could use some coffee, and a bite to eat,” Father Squid said. “What say we break for the night? Tomorrow will be a better day.”

“What makes you think that?” Wilde said.

“Faith, my son,” Father Squid asserted. “We must have faith.”

“I put my faith in drink,” Wilde said, “and I could use a strong one. How about that new place—the Crystal Palace. I hear that it’s quite the venue—and the proprietress is supposed to be something to see.”

“Hmm, yes,” Father Squid said. Wilde was right about Chrysalis, the owner of the Palace. But it was Lizzie whom the priest really wanted to see. “The Rathole is near at hand. Their portions are certainly bigger and their prices cheaper.”

“Ah, yes,” Wilde said with a puckered mouth.

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