The Ballad of James McKenna

Day Fifteen: Divinity

Day Fifteen
         Divinity
Word Count: 812

There once was a Pope who so despaired of the Emerald Isle, he excommunicated it. Or, at least, he threatened to. The Book of Kells put a stop to that nonsense, and quite a piece of art that was.

The bells of St. Patrick's rang through the streets, a song so beautiful and of such majesty that Jimmy felt the power of God swell in his chest. They reverberated through his bones, each clang dancing through his body, coming down as if from Heaven to mingle with the sweat of the Earth. It was God, it was the universe. It was Jimmy's song, only on a grand scale; on the grandest scale imaginable. It was everything Jimmy wanted the universe to be.

Jimmy could never have said he was a particularly observant Catholic, but he always thought he was a pretty good one. At least with regard to believing in what the religion stood for, if not precisely in the rituals used to demonstrate such belief.

So he ate red meat on Fridays and he couldn't remember the last time he'd given up anything for Lent, but Jimmy had always believed in God. He believed fervently, with every ounce of his being, and he loved freely. God was the ultimate mechanicler, the great creator, whose creations were so perfect that they seemed the work of impossible luck, and required nothing but the lightest touches to right themselves again.

No work happened on Sundays. Pinkerton insisted upon it. The war had changed things, of course, and battles could occur even on the Lord's day, but in times of peace, certain procedures and traditions must be followed. This included resting on the Holy Day. Thus, there would be no investigation that day, even if Jimmy wanted so badly to come to the end of this case.

It had been months since he'd last attended a service. Sundays in Chicago were pretty often spent in the mechanical room while Nate went to his own service (Baptist, of course, as befitted a true Southern gentleman), but every so often there would be a tug on his heart that dragged him into a pew on Sunday morning. Jimmy wondered if everyone had such a need. They probably did. Maybe not to attend Church specifically, but...something, something to remind them that they are part of a bigger picture. A need to know that, no matter the world one lived in, they were not alone.

Jimmy couldn't imagine anyone wanting to be alone.

Father had told him the stories, of course, of Brighid the Three-in-One, Goddess of Fire and everything, who became St. Brighid to protect Ireland upon accepting the Faith. He told him of the Celtic Cross, to represent the rising Sun and not rising Son, the Great Goddess. Jimmy knew to leave milk out for the piskies and bread for the fae. All of these things that had once brought Ireland to the brink of excommunication, a fate that had only been alleviated by decades of hard work and a great deal of Ireland's fortunes. Father loved these stories, and so Jimmy loved them, too.

The smell of incense was nearly cloying in his nose and it was only through a great effort that he suppressed a sneeze. The Fathers didn't much care for that sort of thing. But the sound of the bells singing in the cloisters was the sound of Creation, and all that was wonderful in the universe, and so Jimmy smiled, letting their joyous orchestration wash the fear and the loathing from every inch of his body. He felt reborn and renewed, as if he had been washed in purity and turned out into the world as a newborn.

Jimmy slipped into a pew, crossing himself and kneeling in prostration before the Lord, feeling all the comfort of his Father's faith, and his Mother's. It was beautiful, and it made him feel as if someone, somewhere, was taking care of everything. There was truly a plan, even if it were something that was so big, and composed of such a multitude of parts, that Jimmy and his like couldn't begin to understand, or even to comprehend.

He needed this. He needed to believe that Eugenie's death was not in vain. That, though such a thing as cruel as her evisceration could happen in this world, it meant that, somehow, that world became a better place. He had to hope. For without that hope, he would give way to madness, and he, too, would die.

Jimmy believed. And because he believed, he could keep on going and keep on seeing the worst humanity had to offer with a mostly stoic face and a heart that pounded only slighter faster than usual.

There was once a Pope who threatened to excommunicate the Emerald Isle. But their faith proved too strong for even the Holy See.