Chương 127: The Saint Who Worked a Miracle

The footage the news played most often began with a fixed camera at the back of the church. There was only a short caption at the bottom of the screen. `Mass in Rome, Italy. ` The old church's ceiling did not fit inside the frame. Heavy stone pillars divided the rows on either side, and dull light from the high windows stopped halfway down them. Several candles burned on the altar at the front. A thin trail of incense rose above it. People filled the long pews. Wheelchairs lined the aisle.

Folded crutches and canes leaned beneath the seats. An old man sat with his head bowed and an oxygen tank between his feet. In the front row, a woman cupped the trembling hand of the person beside her in both of hers. A child shifted, and his mother put an arm around his shoulders. At the back, a cameraman held the tripod handle and stifled a yawn. People following the prayers, people only moving their lips, and people sitting with their heads down waiting for it to end all shared the same frame.

Mass was nearing its end. The priest before the altar was a thin old man. The same deep wrinkles remained on his cheeks and around his mouth as when he had appeared to be a bookseller. His neck was slender above the white vestments, and thick veins rose on the backs of his hands beyond the sleeves. The old man did not look at the camera. He slowly surveyed the congregation once, then joined his hands before his chest. The church fell quiet. A small breath came through the microphone first.

"May many be blessed." As he finished speaking, golden light burst from his hands. The gray light outside the windows and the altar candles did not change. The gold spread all at once between his fingers. It covered the altar and the first row, passed down the aisle and beyond the pillars, and swept to the back of the church. For a moment, the camera image washed white. People's faces vanished, then reappeared. Someone with eyes closed. Someone looking up, mouth open. Someone whose hands had stopped in prayer.

A nun dropped her rosary. The little cross struck the edge of a pew and fell to the floor. The cameraman released the tripod handle and covered his face with his arm. The child in the front row gazed into the golden light without even pulling away from his mother's hand. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Sound returned a beat later. A seat scraped. Someone drew breath. Short cries and calls of names overlapped throughout the church.

The priest was looking at his own hands too. His eyes opened wide within their deep wrinkles. His joined hands slowly separated, but the golden light did not go out. It flowed along the floor, past shoes, wheelchair wheels, and canes beneath the pews. A wheelchair in the middle of the aisle rattled. The fingers resting on the man's lap moved. His thumb straightened first, then the other fingers one by one. The woman beside him caught his hand. His toes pushed against the footrest.

She hurriedly gripped the wheelchair handles, but he leaned forward. Both feet touched the stone floor. His knees shook hard once. People reached out. He took their hands and stood. The empty wheelchair rolled back. One wheel caught in a gap between the stones and stopped. Even after he was standing, the people around him could not close their mouths. Then a cane fell on the other side of the church. The old man with the oxygen tank between his feet took off his mask.

He filled his chest with a deep breath, then took another. The oxygen tube slipped below his knees. The woman in the front row whose hand had been held by the person beside her opened her palm. The hand that had trembled without stopping was still. The person beside her could not let it go. They stroked the back, pressed her fingers, and caught her wrist again. Then they lowered their head and rested their forehead against her palm. The sounds inside the church changed.

At first, there were only footsteps retreating in surprise. Soon voices called to the man standing beside the empty wheelchair, and sobs broke out between the pews. Someone laughed, then clapped a hand over their mouth. Someone reached for fallen crutches, then left them there. The camera faced the altar, but the congregation was no longer looking only at the altar. They checked each other's faces, hands, and legs. They helped seated people up and embraced those already standing.

Caregivers cried before the patients did. People trying to reach the priest poured into the aisle, then stopped at what was happening beside them. The golden light remained in the church for some time. Cold white stone walls turned yellow in its glow. Faces emerged from soot-darkened sacred paintings, and the incense beneath the high ceiling looked like gold dust. At its center, the priest could not move a step. His lips moved several times, but no words reached the microphone. His hands were still trembling.

The broadcaster followed this with other footage. A vertical phone video from someone in the front row. An empty wheelchair filmed from the other side of the aisle. People spilling out of the church, checking each other's bodies. Reports followed of recoveries that were harder to see directly on screen. Medical staff present said they had also confirmed marked improvement in attendees with neurological and psychiatric conditions. The news replayed the same scenes in slow motion. The priest's hands.

The spreading gold. The faces it touched. Canes and crutches left on the floor. A wheelchair empty because its occupant had stood up. On the first broadcast, the caption had read: `An unnamed priest in Rome. ` A few hours later, it changed. `The saint who worked a miracle. ` There was still no name. Only the scene of golden light bursting from a thin old man's hands played again.