Daniel awoke because the dream was not his own. He sat up, a sour taste in his mouth, his heart racing. In the dusk, he tried to discern the familiar furnishings, just to ground himself. The edge of the old, worn chair stood against the pale darkness of the early morning, and he drew in a deep breath.

A weird dream, that was all. Nothing new; a guilty conscience begat nightmares. And compared to his usual visions of the dead kid, this one was rather interesting – or would’ve been, if only Daniel could shake off the feeling that it was not meant for him. He wondered if dreams could be sent to a wrong address, if this peculiar dream was just a mundane piece of daily business for some other guy. The thought made Daniel smile. That would be a cool life to have.

In the dream, he stood in front of a picturesque country church, all steeples and ivy; the green hedge separated the churchyard from a pasture, where several black and white cows arranged themselves in an attractive display: some stood, chewing, while the others were lying down. The sign in front of the church said, “St. Peter’s.” Daniel walked inside with a great sense of purpose. An old bespectacled priest greeted him warmly, addressing him as Monsignor. Daniel waved his hand, and heard his own voice: “Please, Father Magee. I’m not a bloody bishop; just call me Bartram. Now, where’s the statue?” Strangely, his name was Bartram – at least, when he was dreaming this.

The priest led him towards a wooden effigy – ubiquitous St. Francis, with his eternal sparrows. Daniel knelt in front of the statue, not out of piety, but to take a closer look. He knocked carefully on the base, listening for the hollow sound. None was apparent, and he proceeded to tap along the entire length of the statue. The priest watched his unceremonious behavior with a worried look in his eyes. Daniel – Bartram, that is – rose to his feet, and brushed the dust off his black trousers. Bartram was taller and thinner than Daniel. “Well,” he said to the priest, “I cannot find any tampering. Usually, when I am called to see a talking statue, it’s some joker with a tape recorder or a microphone. This one seems to be clean.”

“It’s a miracle then?” The priest folded his small hands across his chest, and looked up at him.

The spectacles of the priest gleamed, reflecting Bartram's face – that was what woke Daniel up. He resisted the urge to run to the bathroom, to make sure that his face was still his own, not the mutilated visage that reflected in the spectacles of the old priest. Bartram, whoever he was, possessed the most ostentatious scar Daniel had ever seen or imagined – running from the inner corner of his left eye, across the bridge of his nose, smashing through his lips, and coming to a rest at the right side of his jaw.

Daniel touched his cheek, relieved that there was no trace of the scar, and looked at the fluorescent face of the clock. Only five thirty, but he had no desire to go back to sleep. He walked to the kitchen, and brewed a cup of coffee. He dug through the sink full of dirty dishes, looking for a cup that was not splattered with tomato sauce. He found one that could be salvaged with a rinse, and filled it with coffee. Such was the life of a thirty-three year old bachelor.

It was too early to get ready for work, and Daniel’s thoughts returned to the dream. He grasped at anything that distracted him from the misery of his remembered guilt. The dream was so vivid and real that Daniel harbored no doubt that Bartram existed. On the whim, he picked up the phone book, and opened it to B. ‘Bartram, G.’ – there it was. Only one, since Hillsville, Maine boasted less than ten thousand population. Daniel thought that it was too early to call anyone, but his curiosity was stronger than he. Just two rings – if the mysterious Bartram was asleep, he wouldn’t pick up, Daniel reasoned. He dialed.

“Hello.” As if he was waiting by the phone.

Daniel cringed. No matter what he said, he was going to sound stupid. Still, he did not want to hang up before getting to the bottom of it. “Mr. Bartram?” he said. “Sorry to call so early.”

A snort. “It’s Father Bartram. And it’s not early, it’s late. In any case, I was up. Who is this?”

“My name’s Daniel Selick,” Daniel said. “It’s going to sound weird, but do you know St. Peter’s church? The one with a talking statue?”

“I know the church,” Bartram said. “How did you hear about the statue?”

“I dreamt it,” Daniel said. He recounted his dream, up to the point of catching Bartram’s reflection.

The unknown priest seemed neither upset nor surprised. “Huh,” he said. “Remarkable.” He paused. “You know, I am an insomniac. I wonder if my dreams end up in other people’s heads because I never have a chance to watch them.”

Daniel smiled – if he was crazy, then so was Bartram. “I am sorry,” he said, and rubbed his face. “This is the first time something like this happened to me. Thanks for being understanding – I just had to know whether you really existed.”

Bartram laughed. “My Buddhist friends assure me that I do not. Tell you what, Selick, it’s 5:45. I need to make a few phone calls, but I’ll meet you in the coffee shop on the corner of Main and Peach at seven. We can talk… I have a few thoughts, but I’d rather voice them face to face.”

“All right,” Daniel said. “How will I recognize you?”

“Have you seen my face in the dream?”

“Not very clearly,” Daniel lied.

“That should be enough.” Bartram hung up.

Daniel wondered at himself. He wasn’t usually eager to meet random strangers at seven in the morning. Yet, the dream made him abandon his idea of what kind of thing was reasonable. He was intrigued by Bartram’s reaction – very matter-of-fact, as if people called him every day reporting that they had had his dreams. In any case, it seemed more appealing than wallowing in his usual misery.

Daniel shaved and dressed for work. He then drove to the coffee shop, which was busy this time of the day. The glass counter reminded him of a barricade stormed by hungry construction and office workers. Doris, who worked the counter, batted off impatient hands and poured coffee. All tables were occupied, and Daniel scanned them for the scarred man from his dream.

Bartram sat by the window, and had the table all to himself. He did not look inviting – besides the purple scar that bisected his long face, his black shirt and white clerical collar looked forbidding. Not exactly the garb of a Catholic priest, but close enough. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, pale. His eyes were of an unusual dark grey, and a fine spray of small freckles swathed across his high cheekbones.

“What do you want, hon?” Doris said, her white perm escaping from under her white cap.

“Regular, milk and sugar,” Daniel said. “And a blueberry muffin.”

He approached the table where the priest drank his coffee. “Hi,” Daniel said.

The priest nodded. “You must be Selick. Sit and tell me about yourself.” That was an order.

Daniel obeyed. “Well, I am a medical researcher. I did my graduate work at Harvard, and I currently work for Hills Chemical Company.”

The dark gaze of the priest gripped his face. “Ph.D. from Harvard? What did you do to end up in this bloody Fuckville?” His lips curled. “Did you kill someone?”

Daniel felt his blood leave his face. “I agreed to meet you, but I didn’t expect an interrogation.”

“The Spanish Inquisition, you mean.” Bartram’s grin was downright disagreeable. “I’m a Jesuit, and you know what kind of reputation our lot has. In any case, you’re having my dreams, and I don't think it is coincidental. However, I do need to know if you have a criminal record.”

Daniel shook his head. “I quit my previous job after an accident. I stepped down when a research subject died… a new medication – it happens.”

“But you felt it was your fault,” Bartram said.

Daniel nodded, and felt a surge of relief. Bartram mentioned his secret, his curse with such casual ease that for the first time in five years Daniel had no trouble admitting it. He savored the feeling for a moment, and returned to business at hand. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I wanted to offer you a job,” Bartram said. “My superiors grumbled but agreed – they want me to have an assistant, although they would prefer to saddle me with one of their own.”

Daniel gaped. “Job? What kind of job?”

Bartram held up his palm, commanding. “You’re a scientist, so tell me: what is a dream?”

Daniel shook his head, trying not to stare at the swollen, purple river of scar tissue that washed over Bartram’s face. “It’s the product of the activity of a sleeping brain, taking form of visual images.”

Bartram nodded, pleased. “Very lucid. But I was not sleeping – I haven’t for days. Where did this dream come from?”

Daniel shrugged. “Subconscious brain activity… perhaps, your body was compensating for the lack of sleep. Beta-waves and such.”

Bartram smiled, drumming his long fingers on the table. “Feasible. But how come you got it?”

Daniel shrugged.

“Exactly. This is why I am eager to recruit you to my cause. I need my dreams, and I figure that making mothballs is not exactly your life’s ambition, is it?”

Daniel shook his head. "I had no choice. I'm damaged goods now, and ..."

“And no one will let you close to medical research of any interest," Bartram interrupted. "I offer you travel opportunity, a forty percent raise, and weird occurrences that do not make it into the papers. You are an adventurous man…”

“I’m not,” Daniel said.

“Yet you called the guy you dreamt about. At five-thirty in the morning.”

Daniel smiled for the first time during this meeting. “That’s not really adventurous.”

“It’s more than most people would do. Besides, how come it was you who ended up with my dream? Don’t you think it’s a sign?”

Daniel laughed. “A sign from God?”

“I doubt it,” Bartram said. “God is not known for giving a lot of signs. But I need help, and you’re the one best suited to give it.”

“I’m not religious,” Daniel said.

“Neither am I,” Bartram said. “You think they’d give this job to a nitwit who melts every time he hears that Virgin Mary appeared to a drunken Irishman?”

“But you’re a priest,” Daniel said. “Aren’t you supposed to be religious?”

Bartram smiled. “I don’t want to bore you with gory details, but my society values self-knowledge and rationality. Hysterical faith – and this is what I think you mean when you say ‘religious’ – is not tolerated. I’ll be thrilled when I see a genuine miracle. But so far, all are works of men, it seems.”

“Fraud?” Daniel said. “This is what I thought they all were – I don’t know why you even bother.”

“Most are fraud, yes. Others are harder to explain, but I always manage.”

“That sounds interesting.” He caught himself looking at Bartram's scar, and quickly looked down.

Bartram’s already twisted narrow lips contorted in a grimace, as if he tasted something sour. “No doubt, you want to know what the fuck happened to my face, and are too polite to ask.”

“Well?” Daniel stared at Bartram openly.

He laughed. “A crowbar.”

Daniel kept staring. “Have you considered reconstructive surgery?”

Bartram slapped his forehead in mock frustration. “No, I have not. The Jesuits are a mendicant order – I’m already violating a bunch of rules by not living in the society’s house, and by accepting money from the Vatican, for instance. I’m not adding vanity to my list of sins.” He gave a dry smile. “So. Do you accept the offer?”

“I need to think about it,” Daniel said. “And I need more details – what happened with the talking statue?”

“I don’t know,” Bartram said. “Rather, nothing yet – it was a prescient dream. I’m supposed to leave for Vermont in two hours, so there isn’t much time to think. Are you coming? I already got the second ticket, so there's not much time to think.”

“Yes,” Daniel said. “Let me call work.”

Bartram put a cell phone in front of him. “Tell them you’re quitting.”

The two hours they spent at the airport bar were easily the strangest in Daniel’s life. Bartram, sleep-deprived and irritable, seemed in no mood for conversation, and stared into his glass. Once, his cell phone rang, and Bartram replied in Italian – Daniel could not understand the words, but the tone was unmistakably caustic. He hung up, and Daniel tried to strike up a conversation. Bartram turned away, but Daniel persisted; having just quit his job, he felt that he deserved some answers. “What is your title, exactly?” he asked.

Bartram glared. “A Jesuit priest.”

“I know,” Daniel said. “But you work directly for the Pope.”

“All Jesuits do,” Bartram said. “When one becomes Professed – achieves priesthood, that is – among other vows, he gives an oath of obedience to the Pope. I happened to possess some useful skills; this is why I work for the Vatican. But any Jesuit priest would do what the Pope tells him.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Daniel. “I thought that the Jesuits were… uh… unpopular.”

“We are.” Bartram crossed his arms. “The Society was suppressed in eighteenth century. We value education and knowledge, and things like that always appear suspicious.” He grinned at Daniel. “Surely you’ve experienced the deep distrust an average person has for anyone with more than a college education.”

Daniel nodded. “And what do you expect of me? What is my job title?”

“I expect you to get a lot of sleep, and to record your dreams. As for the title – how about ‘dreamer’? Or ‘sleeper’, if you prefer. Or indentured transomniac.” Bartram leered.

“I like ‘sleeper’,” Daniel said. He did feel as if he was inside a dream, so sudden the change in his life was. He tried to reconcile himself with the fact that he was in the employ of the scarred Jesuit he’d met only a few hours ago. He thought that if the miracle thing did not work out, he could always have his old job. But in his heart, he knew that he would not go back. Not that awful, deadening, dreary routine of chemical testing. And he could not shake the feeling that Bartram was right – it was not a coincidence that brought them together. Bartram needed his dreams; Daniel needed escape from his nightmares.

Bartram waved at the bartender, an attractive brunette. She leaned over the bar. “Yes, Father?”

Bartram looked at Daniel. “Anything for you?”

“I’ll have a Heineken,” Daniel said, smiling at the girl.

“Another double scotch for me,” Bartram said. “Actually, make it triple – no point in running you ragged back and forth. No ice.”

Daniel wondered if the priest had a drinking problem on top of his other issues. His suspicions solidified once the alcohol arrived, and Bartram drank his scotch in one long swallow.

Daniel nursed his beer, watching Bartram out of the corner of his eye. By the time they boarded the plane, Bartram had imbibed four triple scotches. Neither his demeanor nor his carriage changed as they walked towards their seats – the priest was sure on his feet, and his dark eyes seemed as lucid as before. He kept quiet during the flight, letting Daniel watch the clouds below.

A cab waited for them at the airport – the driver took them to the hotel and waited as they checked in. Daniel liked the small bed-and-breakfast inn. Apparently, it was the peak tourist season, and Daniel was to share the room with Bartram.

“Never mind that,” Bartram said. “I’ll probably go out for the night, since I don’t sleep much. Now, let’s go and see what’s up with the statue.”

The same cab took them outside of the town, through the green fields, to the church of Daniel’s dream. His breath caught at the accuracy of déjà vu: same stone of the walls, same ivy, same black and white cows. Only instead of seeing through Bartram’s eyes, he watched his tall, broad-shouldered frame enter the church. Daniel followed, and heard Bartram say: “I’m not a bloody bishop; just call me Bartram.”

The fat priest with glasses on, Father Magee from Daniel’s dream, showed them towards the alcove; to Daniel’s surprise, instead of St. Francis he saw St. Sebastian. He touched Bartram’s sleeve. “It’s a different saint.”

Bartram smiled. “Get used to it – dreams can get pretty muddled by semantics. Sparrows and arrows are similar, don’t you think?”

“But the image…”

Bartram sank to his knees, tapping along the length of the statue. “Selick, images are secondary to words – read the Bible sometime.” He listened for hollow sounds, but there were none. Bartram stood, brushing the dust off his knees. “It seems to be clean,” he said. “No microphones, tape recorders, or other tampering.”

“It’s a miracle then?” Father Magee said, his small hands clasped in excitement.

Bartram looked into his face. “We’ll see, Father. First, tell me about some of your parishioners – anybody obsessively devout? Anyone with epilepsy?”

Father Magee’s pudgy face registered surprise and annoyance. “We have a few pious ladies. And one girl who is epileptic. Poor thing once had a seizure in church.”

“Recently?” Bartram said.

Magee thought. “A few weeks back. Why? Do you think there’s a connection?”

“Maybe,” Bartram said. He turned to Daniel. “Selick, do you have any questions?”

“What was the statue saying?”

Father Magee smiled. “‘Help me’ and ‘Forgive me’.”

Bartram grinned, apparently pleased. He turned to St. Sebastian. “What say you, St. Sebastian? Why do you need forgiveness after being martyred?”

St. Sebastian remained silent, and Daniel felt a twinge of disappointment.

Father Magee, busy with crossing himself, gave the Jesuit a peevish look.

Bartram seemed oblivious. “Any recent deaths in the parish?”

Magee shook his head. “Not since last year.”

“Hm. Let’s concern ourselves with the living then,” Bartram said. “Give me the names and addresses of the most dedicated members of your flock. And the epileptic girl.”

Father Magee retreated into the rectory to put together a list. Daniel and Bartram stayed with the statue.

Daniel touched one of the arrow shafts that protruded from Sebastian’s chest. He felt kinship with the statue. He understood the need to be forgiven; it was the only way to be free of the guilt. This is why he had gone to the dead kid’s funeral – to find forgiveness. He had hoped that the boy’s family would understand that it was not Daniel’s fault, but they did not.

Bartram watched him, with a sad look in his eyes. “You know, I envy you. After ten years of running all over the place, it seems so ordinary. There was a walking statue in the Philippines once – apparently, it just wandered off one day. There are always visions of Mary, Jesus, saints, and any combination thereof; there are always bleeding icons. I used to be impressed with those, but now… I’m glad that you decided to come along – I am in dire need of someone who would remind me how extraordinary all this is.” He shifted on his feet. “And to tell me my dreams – they used to be my main guide, but I’ve lost them recently. Thanks for finding them.”

“No problem,” Daniel said. “By the way, what’s your first name?”

“Glynn,” Bartram said.

“I can’t remember the last time I was asked this question.”

Father Magee shuffled out of the rectory, with a sheet of paper he waved in the air, apparently to dry the ink. “Here you go, Father Bartram. Names, addresses, level of piety.”

“Ah. Good thing you can quantify that.” Bartram smiled still. “Thank you, Father. We’ll be back.”

They exited the church, and the warmth and brightness outside halted both in their tracks.

“What’s going on?” Daniel said, squinting at the cloudless sky. “Do you think one of the parishioners is responsible?”

Bartram nodded. “I think it’s the epileptic.” He studied the list. “Brianne Doherty, nineteen, works in a garden center. But I say we should start with the old ladies.”

Daniel laughed. “Isn’t it a waste of time?”

Bartram folded the list, and stuffed it into a back pocket of his trousers. “I’m surprised at you, Selick. Failure to test alternative hypotheses is a mark of bad science. I guess I know why you’re out of the research milieu.”

Daniel felt his face grow hot. “You don’t know what happened.”

“No,” Bartram agreed, starting towards the cab. “But I can guess. Phase II clinical trials, very few subjects… you feed them your latest wonder drug and one dies. You check his allergies, and find out that he’s sensitive to something very similar…”

Daniel drew a breath. “Good guess. Only we did not know that he became sensitized to the compound during the therapy. No one knew that such thing could happen.” He followed the priest into the cab.

Bartram smiled. “Forgive me then. But if it wasn’t negligence, why did you step down?”

“I was afraid it would happen again,” Daniel said. “Something unpredictable like that. The kid was only sixteen.”

Bartram patted Daniel’s sleeve with awkwardness that indicated that he did not touch people often. “You know that mistakes can be costly then. So let’s rule out as many suspects as we can. If we find no earthly agent, then we conclude that the miracle is genuine. But I bet you fifty that one of Father Magee’s parishioners is making it happen, whether she’s aware of it or not.”

“If your suspects have some kind of telekinetic powers, doesn’t that qualify as a miracle?”

Bartram shook his head. “Supernatural or not, it is still the work of men. True miracles are of the divine origin.”

“So what do you do after you find your culprit?”

Bartram laced his fingers together. “I write a report to Vatican and go home.”

They spent the rest of the day drinking tea and being offered pies by nice motherly women. Daniel kept quiet and just watched the Jesuit – his deformity seemed to endear him to the old ladies, and his spiritual calling evoked the level of respect bordering on worshipful. He was skilled in exploiting both.

Daniel felt a degree of admiration for Bartram – he managed to be respectful and yet authoritative; he asked about the miracle of the talking St. Sebastian and about their lives. Daniel realized that he liked his new job.

“Well, that was the last one,” Bartram said, as they left a white-walled cottage surrounded by an obscene number of flowerbeds. “I guess it leaves us with our epileptic. I hope she doesn’t bake – I don’t know if I can stomach another slice of pie.”

“I don’t mind,” Daniel said. “I am pretty hungry.”

Bartram’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “Oh dear. You have to tell me if you want to eat – don’t count on me to offer.”

“You don’t eat either?”

Bartram smirked. “Rarely.”

“You seem to have conquered your flesh,” Daniel said. “Very admirable.”

Bartram rolled his eyes. “Flesh cannot be conquered, my friend. The best you can hope for is a tentative truce.” He got into the cab. “Jimmy’s Garden Center,” he said to the driver.

“It’s Wednesday,” the driver said. “They’re closed.”

“The hotel then,” said Bartram, and kept quiet for the rest of the ride.

Daniel looked out of the window at the neat houses, small shop fronts, green expanses that seemed to intrude upon the town from every direction. The town did not seem to be shaken by the miracle. Daniel was surprised at that: he would’ve expected the hordes of TV and newspaper crews, and religious fervor. He guessed that people were not as gullible as he thought – perhaps everyone simply ignored the rumor of the talking statue. Or perhaps Father Magee urged his parishioners to keep it a secret until the Vatican approved the miracle.

Daniel smiled to himself, imagining the miracle department of the Vatican: severe cardinals in bright robes, pouring over the reports, and sending their investigative crews into all four directions. He guessed that Bartram was deployed to only the most promising of cases; he was the one who could give a miracle the final validation, the seal of quality. Daniel felt proud to be involved.

“Bloody hell,” Bartram said the moment the cab stopped in front of the chalet of the hotel.

Daniel looked out of the window, and saw a single camera, three men, and a woman wearing a suit. The woman had the typical squeaky-clean appeal of a TV anchor. Daniel thought that he had underestimated the impact of the miracle. “What do we do?” he said.

Bartram shrugged. “Do not say anything.” He got out of the cab and walked towards the porch in a decisive step.

The camera moved closer, and the anchorwoman trotted alongside the tall Jesuit, somehow managing to keep up with his long strides in her high heels. “Channel Six News, Reverend.”

“Father,” Bartram corrected, without slowing down. “What can I do for you?”

“We have a word that you’re investigating the talking statue of St. Peter’s church, on behalf of the Catholic Church. We wanted to ask you some questions.” She smiled, and thrust her microphone towards Bartram.

He covered the microphone with his palm. “I am somewhat sensitive about being on camera; surely, you can respect that.”

She nodded to the cameraman who turned the camera off. “Can we ask you some questions about the miracle?”

Bartram smiled. “I honestly have nothing to say. But if you leave me your number, I’ll give you a call and an interview as soon as I find something out.”

The anchorwoman beamed, and scrawled something on a piece of paper.

Daniel followed Bartram into the lobby. “Are you really going to call them?”

“Of course not,” Bartram said.

“Lying is allowed?” Daniel smirked.

The Jesuit turned abruptly. Daniel was taken aback by Bartram’s expression – he glared from the height of his six foot four. “Selick,” Bartram said. “I could not help but notice that you’re looking for my shortcomings. I decided to make your life easier, and admit that I am a liar, a hypocrite, a drunkard, and a despicable human being overall. I don’t know what it is with you, but I suspect that you were scared by a priest as a child. In any case, your persistent attempts to find fault are misguided – I am fallible, but it is not a reflection upon religion. Use it as a justification for your atheism or not, but keep in mind that you are working for me. I’ll be much obliged if you never challenge me in public.”

Daniel’s jaw dropped, and he only nodded, mute. He was surprised by Bartram’s volatility. He did not realize that his dislike of church was so obvious. He followed the Jesuit to the suite in small guilty steps.

The suite was small, but functional – two twin beds, two bedside tables, a desk and a chair. The door on the far end of it appeared to lead into the bathroom.

“Get something to eat,” Bartram said. “Call room service – I do not think it is wise for us to risk an ambush by the news.”

“Anything for you?” Daniel asked.

Bartram shook his head and opened his suitcase. “I’ll feed off the mini-bar.”

Daniel remembered the recent verbal beating, but could not resist. “Is the mini one enough?” He tried to keep his tone jocular, despite his concern for his boss’ well-being.

“As long as it is refilled regularly,” Bartram said, and departed towards the bathroom.

Despite a day of pies, Daniel felt a need for something more substantial, and called room service to order club sandwiches, a salad, and a good number of chicken wings. The food arrived promptly, and Daniel was well into his dinner when the priest emerged, his hair wet.

He wore a t-shirt and a pair of jeans that had seen better days. Bartram apparently left his dignified carriage with his vestments – he took a contemptuous look at the tiny bottles of the mini-bar, and pulled a quart of scotch out of his suitcase. He opened the window and settled on the sill, his back against the window frame, and his bent knees under his chin.

Daniel ate and watched his boss light a cigarette and drink straight from the bottle. “You look like a teenage malcontent,” Daniel said.

Bartram stared outside – it grew dark, and the streets looked like something one would see inside of a snow globe, minus the snow. “Why did you agree to work for me?” he asked, catching Daniel off guard.

Daniel choked on the chicken wing. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

Bartram shrugged. “Seems too convenient somehow. Honestly, I did not expect you to quit your job and come along so easily. You’re a romantic, my friend.”

Daniel laughed, embarrassed. “Nothing wrong with that, is there? I guess I'm looking to do something useful.”

“I thought so,” Bartram said. “Personally, I think it is a good life, although it can get a bit restless. This is why I live in Hillsville – nothing ever happens there.” He finished the scotch, got off the windowsill and put his shoes on. “Get some sleep. I’m going for a walk.”

“Where to?”

“Just around town. I’m hoping that the combination of alcohol and exercise will let me sleep.”

“If you sleep, does it mean that I’m out of job?”

“Not at all. I still may need someone with medical knowledge.” Bartram paused in the doorway. “Besides, my superiors were riding my ass for years to get an assistant. They don’t like me running around on my own. This is why they let me employ a secular person.”

“If you were so determined not to have an assistant, why did you hire me?”

“As I said, I thought it was a sign.” Bartram closed the door.

Daniel watched TV for a while, and went to bed – he could hardly keep awake. The moment he closed his eyes, the faces of old ladies and the pastoral views swirled in front of him, until darkness drowned all.

His dreams were muddled – fragments and flashes, his own and Bartram’s mixed together. He did not know which were which – he saw a fire consuming the roof of a low building, and the TV crew from yesterday filming the fire; a young woman flopping on the ground like a beached fish; the Bow and Arrow Pub; he saw a window, with a view of downtown Boston. That was his, he thought – he did spend six years in Boston, and its landscapes often manifested themselves in his dreams, reminding him of the happier, untroubled times. He made an effort to linger in the Boston dream, and looked out of the window at the Charles River that flowed nearby, oily and slow, not reflecting the low clouds.

“Glynn,” a female voice said. “I can’t take it anymore.”

He didn’t turn. “I thought you’d say that sooner or later.”

The voice of the invisible woman shook with tears. “They wouldn’t even let me see you in the hospital. How do you think it feels?”

“I’m sorry, Judith. I told you you’d get tired of it.” Something smashed, and he turned, looking at the shards of glass on the hardwood floor. “That was uncalled for.”

Judith sobbed, her face in her hands. He could see only her short auburn hair and long, graceful neck. He started picking up the pieces of broken glass.

“I hoped that things would change,” she said, still sobbing.

“They won’t,” he said. “I never lied to you about that.”

“I know,” she said into her hands. “I just wish you wouldn’t be so fucking calm about it.”

She could not see his hand clenching over the glass shards.

Pain woke Daniel, and he sat up. His right hand was asleep, and he closed and opened his fist a few times. The room was filled with the morning light that poured in through the open window. Yellow floral curtains fluttered in the breeze, and the air smelled of nostalgia – all the half-forgotten smells of childhood tickled his nose, and made Daniel feel like crying. He recognized pies, milk, and freshly mowed grass.

Bartram was sitting on the windowsill, looking outside, still in his secular clothes. He had shaved, and instead of a bottle, a paper coffee cup was in his hands. The other one sat on the bedside table, along with a paper bag that smelled of fresh pastry.

“Who’s Judith?” Daniel said, taking a sip of coffee.

Bartram did not change his pose, but his shoulders went rigid. “If you’ve dreamt of her, you know who she is.” He turned and smiled. “I haven’t considered that having a personal dreamer would deprive me of the last shreds of privacy.”

“That dream was very short. Can I see your right palm?”

Bartram slid off the sill and sat on the undisturbed bed. He opened his right hand with a flourish, and Daniel cringed at the mass of fine but numerous white scars that weaved a web across his fingers and palm. “Satisfied?”

Daniel nodded. “I dreamt of broken glass.”

“Anything else?”

“A girl in grand mal seizure, fire, TV crew.” Daniel recounted the fragments he could remember.

“Aha,” Bartram said. “I wonder if the fire was connected to the girl. Could you diagnose the type of epilepsy?”

Daniel drank his coffee. “Appeared to be generalized tonic-clonic. That’s the one best publicized – grand mal seizures and auras. Very cinematic.”

“That’s the one I see most often. I also encountered a case or two of temporal lobe seizure disorder – hallucinations and such. Interesting stuff." Bartram smiled. "You know, I’m glad to have a medical professional on my side. I sometimes suspect that the epileptics can cause extraordinary things to happen.”

“Seizures are just abnormal neuronal discharges,” Daniel said. “Are you saying they are paranormal in some way?”

“Drink your coffee, eat your breakfast, and let’s go.”

Daniel took a long shower. He stood under the nozzle, letting the steaming hot water wash over his face, forgetting all about the miracle and the dreams in the pleasure of the moment. He sighed and lathered his hair, which was growing too long again – he could almost hear his mother’s voice, “Daniel, who do you think you are – a rock star?” He thought that he should call his Mom – if he wasn’t home for two days, she would freak out. He cringed in anticipation of her reaction. “What?” she would scream. “You went to Vermont with a stranger?” As if he was five.

Still, there was no way to explain Bartram to his family. Try as he may, he could never relate the sympathy and trust he felt for the Jesuit. Daniel knew Bartram better than he ever knew anyone in his entire life. Bartram’s dreams laid him transparent before Daniel’s eyes, and he could see even the darkest recesses of the priest’s mind. He saw anguish and loneliness, but no evil.

He thought that the Jesuit was quite brave in his acceptance of the fact that someone else could see his dreams, no matter how personal or embarrassing.

Moreover, Daniel was relieved not to dream of the dead kid anymore. Working for Bartram seemed to chase away the cloud of guilt Daniel had been living under.

Daniel dried himself, and dressed. Bartram was already repackaged into a clean black shirt and trousers. He also wore his dignity and aloof demeanor.

He noticed Daniel’s stare, and cracked a smile. “Proper decorum is everything, Selick.”

“Yes, Father Bartram,” Daniel said almost seriously.

Bartram nodded his approval, and called a cab.

The same driver as yesterday took them to Jimmy’s Garden Center – a large pavilion, surrounded by greenhouses and trees wrapped in burlap sacks. They walked towards the pavilion, mud sucking on their feet. Bartram stopped to look at an exquisite lace-leafed Japanese maple that stood just over four feet, and drooped gracefully to the ground.

“I love these,” Bartram said. “I have a few of them in my yard.”

Daniel nudged the Jesuit, since he noticed the approach of a young, light-haired woman in overalls.

“May I help you?” she said to Daniel.

Bartram turned, and she clasped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily, pulling her hand away. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s all right,” Bartram said. “I am Father Bartram of the Baltimore Archdiocese. This is Dr. Daniel Selick, my assistant.”

“Hello, Father,” the girl said, and crossed herself. “Are you here about the miracle?”

Bartram nodded. “Father Magee mentioned that you are one of the most pious members of his flock. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“No, of course not,” the girl said. “Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Brianne.”

“Let’s sit down somewhere,” Bartram said with a smile.

The girl led them towards a shaded spot, where a bench and a small pyramid of shovels and spades indicated the favorite rest place of the workers. Daniel sat, and thought that the place seemed very peaceful – weeping cherries and cedars created a green curtain of cascading greenery that hid them from the view of the pavilion.

“Brianne,” Bartram started. “Father Magee told me that you seemed a bit concerned lately – does the miracle bother you?”

Daniel knew that Father Magee made no such comment, but let Bartram work. He wondered if they would develop some kind of bad cop – good cop routine, and smiled at the thought.

“No,” she said, her large blue eyes darting from Bartram to Daniel and back. “I don’t know why he would say something like that. Maybe he thought about last month…”

Bartram smiled. “Maybe. What was upsetting you then?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled. “Some stuff at home.”

Bartram nodded. “Happens. This is why I say it’s good to be Catholic – confession surely helps over the rough spots, doesn’t it?”

A deep shade of scarlet flooded Brianne’s cheeks. “I haven’t been to confession in quite a while, Father. I’m sorry; I’m just so embarrassed.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Bartram said, patting Brianne’s hand. “You do what you think is right. But consider this: I’m in town just for a few days, and you’ll never see me again. If you’re embarrassed to tell something to Father Magee, perhaps you could tell me?”

Brianne looked at him with suspicion. “Why do you want me to confess? I thought you were interested in the statue.”

Bartram scowled. “I don’t want you to confess; I am just trying to do my duty as a priest. So, tell me about the statue then. When did you first hear it talk?”

“Two weeks ago.” She gave Bartram a guilty look. “Same as everyone else. I was in church for Vespers, and then I heard someone cry out, ‘Help me’.”

“Is this when you had a seizure?” Bartram interrupted.

She shook her head. “No, that was a week before that, just when I found out…” Brianne caught herself and looked at Bartram with renewed suspicion.

“What did you find out?” Bartram said, smiling with the undamaged corner of his mouth.

“It’s not important,” Brianne said. Her words were belied by a stream of tears that flowed down her cheeks.

Daniel judged it a good moment to take a walk. He looked at the trees and ornamental shrubs, occasionally stealing a glance at the bench. A heated discussion seemed to be in progress – Brianne talked, then cried, while Bartram listened and offered her his handkerchief.

Daniel strolled towards a small pond, overgrown by lilies and irises, and tried to catch a glimpse of fish when he heard Bartram calling him. He ran towards the bench, where the Jesuit lowered the convulsing girl onto the ground.

It was a grand mal seizure – her limbs flailed, and her whole body jerked up and down. Bartram called 911, while Daniel held Brianne’s head up.

“Did you find out what happened?” Daniel said.

Bartram smiled. “You can guess three times.”

Daniel thought of the girl's tears, of the shame in her eyes. “Pregnancy?”

Bartram nodded. “Followed by an abortion. Massive guilt, as you can imagine. Now she believes that the statue is pleading on behalf of her baby.”

“Stress like that can precipitate a seizure.”

“And a miracle.” Bartram grinned.

The girl’s body stopped arching and trembling, and Daniel looked into her face. “It’s okay,” he said, even though her wide eyes seemed uncomprehending. “The ambulance is coming soon.”

The ambulance appeared, its lights flashing. The paramedics headed towards the main building of the garden center, but Bartram waved them towards the bench. A young, freckled kid smiled when he saw Brianne.

“We see her often,” he said. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.” He bent low and said, addressing Brianne, “She’d be even better if she took her medicine.”

They went to the hospital that afternoon, but Brianne had been discharged. Bartram acquired a worried look. “We’d best see her at home.”

The hospital apparently did not have qualms about giving them Brianne’s address. Daniel supposed that confidentiality was impossible in such a tiny town – it was even smaller than Hillsville.

They took a cab again. They noticed a crowd and billowing smoke from a long way away.

“Congratulations, Selick,” Bartram said through clenched teeth. “Your premonitions are exceptionally accurate.”

They got out of the cab and ran towards the house surrounded by concerned neighbors.

“Did anyone call the fire department?” Daniel asked.

A few heads bobbed a yes, but no fire engine was visible.

“I don’t think anyone’s in there,” an elderly man said.

Bartram pushed his way through the crowd; Daniel followed. One of the beams that supported the awning over the porch came crashing down, sending a swarm of sparks into Bartram’s face.

“What are you doing?” Daniel said. “Wait for the firefighters.”

Bartram shook his head and put his cell phone into Daniel’s hand. “Look at this fire. There’s no time. Stay here.”

He stepped over the smoldering beam and disappeared into the flames and smoke. Daniel waited outside with the rest of the spectators. A portion of the roof collapsed, making him and a few others who stood close jump back. A pillar of fire shot towards the sky. Daniel had never seen anything burn like this; he thought that the fire was not natural. It raged, devouring the small cottage as if it was made of paper and doused with gasoline.

The TV crew arrived at the same time as the firefighters. Daniel recognized the woman from Channel Six News – she stood in front of the burning building and talked into the camera: “We are reporting live from the site of the fire that broke out this afternoon on Maple Street. We can only hope that no tenants were inside. The neighbors report that an unknown man has disappeared into this raging inferno not quite five minutes ago, and now the firefighters are trying to get into the building.”

Daniel watched the men unroll the hose and attach it to the hydrant. The water hissed and evaporated as soon as it touched the smoldering beams and the charred tiles of the roof.

The firemen tried to approach the burning porch, but it collapsed the moment one of them set foot onto the charred planks. They broke the window and tried to look inside.

“Over here,” one of them shouted. Daniel looked, trying to see between the backs of the TV crew that rushed towards the voice, the camera still rolling. Daniel saw a firefighter extend his arms to accept something that was handed to him from the window. Brianne, her long hair badly scorched, was carried and laid on the grass. What a day for the girl, Daniel thought. Two firefighters stepped back, letting Bartram get out. He seemed to be having difficulty moving, and landed on the grass awkwardly.

Daniel pushed his way through the crowd, almost knocking over the cameraman. Bartram staggered away from the burning building and slumped on the ground. Daniel sat next to him. The Jesuit was burned – his face was red, and blisters swelled up on the back of his hand. His hair, short to begin with, was burned down to his skin, and the sleeve of his shirt smoldered still. One of the firefighters smothered it with a blanket. Daniel peered into red and black face of his boss, as he heard a deafening noise – the whole house collapsed.

“You got out just in time,” Daniel said.

Bartram smiled. “Now, that’s what I call a miracle.” Daniel was not sure whether he was joking.

Two weeks later, they were still in Vermont. Bartram had to spend a week in the hospital at Montpelier. Although his burns were minor, he inhaled a good amount of smoke. After Bartram left the hospital, Daniel acquired a new duty – battling off the reporters and the grateful citizens.

“It is ironic,” he told Bartram, who was in repose on the windowsill. “You tried to keep a low profile, and now everyone knows your name.”

“But it has nothing to do with St. Sebastian,” Bartram countered. “And Father Magee reports that the statue has ceased to speak.”

“I am impressed with the job you did on Brianne. She seems so normal now.”

“Now, that’s ironic,” Bartram said. “Catholic priests are supposed to provoke guilt, not assuage it. If I were a good priest, she would be doing penance like there’s no tomorrow, and would be convinced that she’s going to hell. In the olden days, she would be burned at the stake, I think.”

Daniel wanted to say that he understood guilt. Instead, he smiled and said, “Now, if you want irony, how about saving a witch from fire rather then putting her in it?”

Bartram barked a laugh.

Daniel kept quiet for a while, trying to guess how Bartram felt about the miracle. He was still puzzled that the Jesuit seemed content, and not at all disappointed that the talking statue was a fake. "I don't get it," he said. "Aren't you worried that people would lose faith because you proved their miracle to be false?"

Bartram shrugged. “What good is faith if it's based on a fraud? Or is so feeble that it needs confirmation?”

“I am amazed that you still believe in God after unmasking so many miracles.”

Bartram laughed. “Selick, would you stop believing in money after seeing a counterfeit bill?”

“Not if you put it that way.” Daniel smiled. “I suppose a real miracle would be like God calling a press-conference to declare his existence. Wouldn’t take much faith to believe then.”

Bartram folded himself into his habitual pose, his knees under his chin. “Exactly. I have a feeling we’ll get along.”

Biography