Two Words.

any attempt to separate us will result in his death

Two words:

  help me

  Her wide stare riveted to the words, Sharon’s breath came frosty as she whispered, “That’s her handwriting, Father.”

  At 9:00 that morning, Karras went to The President of Georgetown University and asked for permission to seek an exorcism. He received it, and immediately afterward went to the Bishop of the diocese, who listened with grave attention to all that Karras had to say. “You’re convinced that it’s genuine?” the Bishop asked finally.

  “Well, I’ve made a prudent judgment that it meets the conditions set forth in the Ritual,” Karras answered evasively. He still did not dare to believe. Not his mind but his heart had tugged him to this moment : pity and the hope for a cure through suggestion.

  “You would want to do the exorcism yourself?”

  Karras felt elation; saw the door swinging open to fields, to escape from the crushing weight of caring and that meeting each twilight with the ghost of his faith. And yet, “Yes, Your Grace,” he answered.

  “How’s your health?”

  “My health is fine, Your Grace.”

  “Have you ever been involved with this sort of thing before?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, we’ll see. It might be best to have a man with experience. There aren’t too many these days but perhaps someone back from the foreign missions. Let me see who’s around. In the meantime, I’ll call you as soon as we know.”

  When Karras had left him, the Bishop called the president of Georgetown University, and they talked about Karras for the second time that day.

  “Well, he does know the background,” said the president at a point in their conversation. “I doubt there’s any danger in just having him assist. In any case, there should be a psychiatrist present.”

  “And what about the exorcist? Any ideas? I’m a blank.”

  “Well, now, Lankester Merrin’s around.”

  “Merrin? I had a notion he was over in Iraq. I think I read he was working on a dig around Nineveh.”

  “Yes, down below Mosul. That’s right. But he finished and came back around three or four months ago, Mike. He’s at Woodstock.”

  “Teaching?”

  “No, he’s working on another book.”

  “God help us! Don’t you think he’s too old, though? How’s his health?”

  “Well, it must be all right or he wouldn’t still be running around digging up tombs, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “And besides, he’s had experience, Mike.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, at least that’s the word.”

  “And when was that? This experience, I mean.”

  “Oh, maybe ten or twelve years ago, I think, in Africa. Supposedly the exorcism lasted for months. I heard it damn near killed him.”

  “Well, in that case, I doubt that he’d want to do another one.”

  “We do what we’re told here, Mike. All the rebels are over there with you seculars.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “Look, I’ll leave it up to you and the Provincial.”

  Early that quietly waiting evening, a young scholastic preparing for the priesthood wandered the grounds of Woodstock Seminary in Maryland. He was searching for a slender, gray-haired old Jesuit. He found him on a pathway, strolling through a grove. He handed him a telegram. His manner serene, the old priest thanked him and then turned to renew his contemplation, to continue his walk through a nature that he loved. Now and then he would pause to hear the song of a robin, to watch a bright butterfly hover on a branch. He did not open and read the telegram. He knew what it said. He had read it in the dust of the temples of Nineveh. He was ready.

  He continued his farewells.

 

   

 “And let my cry come unto thee…”

 

He who abides in love, abides in God, and God in him…

  —Saint John