The Toynbee Convector

“Yes, Father. Isn’t it awful. Isn’t it terrible?” The priest could not answer, for tears were streaming

down his face, too, and he found himself unaccountably short of breath.

“Will God forgive me, Father?” asked the other.

“Yes.”

“Will you forgive me, Father?”

“Yes. But let me tell you something now, son. When I was ten, the same things happened. My parents, of course, but then—my dog, the love of my life, who ran off and I hated him for leaving me, and when he came back I, too, loved and beat him, then went back to love. Until this night, I have told no one. The shame has stayed put all these years. I have confessed all to my priest-confessor. But never that. So—”

There was a pause.

“So, Father?”

“Lord, Lord, dear man, God will forgive us. At long

last, we have brought it out, dared to say. And I, I will forgive you. But finally—” The old priest could not go on, for new tears were really pouring down his face now. The stranger on the other side guessed this and very carefully inquired, “Do you want my forgiveness, Father?^

The priest nodded, silently. Perhaps the other felt the shadow of the nod, for he quickly said, “Ah, well. It’s given.”

And they bo

th sat there for a long moment in the dark and another ghost moved to stand in the door, then sank to snow and drifted away.

“Before you go,” said the priest “Come share a glass of wine.” The great clock in the square across from the church struck midnight. “It’s Christmas, Father,” said the voice from behind the panel.

The finest Christmas ever, I think.”

“The finest”

The old priest rose and stepped out.

He waited a moment for some stir, some movement from the opposite side of the confessional. There was no sound. Frowning, the priest reached out and opened the confessional door and peered into the cubicle.

There was nothing and no one there.

His jaw dropped. Snow moved along the back of his neck. He put his hand out to feel the darkness. The place was empty. Turning, he stared at the entry door, and hurried over to look out.

Snow fell in the last tones of far clocks late-sounding the hour. The streets were deserted.

Turning again, he saw the tall mirror that stood in the church entry.

There was an old man, himself reflected in the cold glass.

Almost without thinking, he raised his hand and made the sign of blessing. The reflection in the mirror did likewise.

Then the old priest, wiping his eyes, turned a last time, and went to find the wine.

Outside, Christmas, like the snow, was everywhere.

By the Numbers!

“Company, tenshun!”

Snap.

“Company, forward—Harch!”