The Tempter
FICTION
by Finn Wirbel
Samuel Rickton likes to eat honeycomb. He will grab the chunks of wax, dripping with pockets of honey, and shove them into his mouth by the handful. There is a perpetual stain of sickly sweet yellow across his lips from many years of this practice, and the people of Saint Mary’s Catholic Parish collectively decided that ignoring it was their best option.
The boy, no older than eight, sits at the back of the church in one of the long, wooden pews and chews on the beeswax while his sticky fingers stain the pages of the Bible in front of him. While it’s true that you’re not meant to eat in a Catholic church, no one says anything to the boy. To be fair, they hardly classify what he’s doing as eating. It sure doesn’t look like eating.
Yes, he goes through all of the motions of putting the honeycomb in his mouth, chewing, and swallowing, but there is something more to it. Something abnormal. Abnormal beyond his choice of snack. If you look closely and stare long enough, you may notice that there is always a split second before the honey touches Samuel’s lips, when something changes.
In the moments when Samuel is about to eat, many swear that you can see his jaw unhinge just a bit too far and an extra row of teeth appears. Within that row of extra teeth, sometimes you can even catch a glimpse of an extra tongue. It will flick out with such speed, such intensity that you’ll likely only ever see it once even if you watch him every mass, hoping to catch another glimpse of the long, snakelike tongue to flick out and pull the honeycomb into its maw.
But that would be absurd. This is why, among all the parishioners, no one has ever brought it up despite the unspoken understanding that everyone, at some point, had watched Samuel eat. The Parishioners could look, but they wouldn’t allow themselves to see. If the devil was watching in the pews with them, they would simply pray harder and show he had not tempted them. Samuel and his honeycomb, as wild as they were, could be simply melted into the background and become a part of yet another thing that a blind eye was turned to during mass if one so desired.
Today was Sunday, and people had begun to file into the church and find their seats. Father Luke Dennison would be saying the mass today. The man was younger than the other priests who worked in the same parish, as he had recently moved there from a town over due to a spot that had needed filling. The usual priest who performed Sunday mass, Father Matthew, had recently died of old age at 83, which led to Saint Mary’s contacting the Diocese in search of a replacement. It seemed as though more and more priests were leaving or dying, and fewer and fewer new replacements were coming in. But Luke, age 32, had become a quick solution. Luke was still adjusting to his new living situation as well as the people settling into the rows of pews before the altar on which he stood.
The parish members did not seem to be receiving his presence warmly since his arrival, but none had been outright hostile. Saint Mary’s always held socials at the entrance of the church after Sunday morning masses, handing out coffee to adults and juice to children. At these gatherings, Luke had done his best to be amiable and get to know those he was preaching to, but there was always a faraway look in their eyes. He could make eye contact with them, and hold regular conversations, too. But there was always something not quite right. The people of this parish seemed more distant somehow.
The organ began to play, and Luke watched and performed his duties as the communion wafers were brought to the altar during the opening hymnal. He went through the motions of starting the mass, greeting the people, and listening to the altar servers as they said their readings. Today’s Sunday gospel was Ecclesiastes 3:1-4, read out to the room through a microphone.
“There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under the heavens,” Father Luke began, doing his best to look into the eyes of the churchgoers who were seated in the front rows. Those at the front were usually listening most intently, and Luke enjoyed engaging with them. He liked the quiet that would fall over the parish as he read the gospel as if everyone were hanging onto the word of God like a lifeline. “a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal.” Luke paused for a moment, taking a breath and getting distracted in what should have been silence by an unmistakable crunching sound.
His eyes began to scan the pews, sweeping through the rows as he continued further, “A time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,” The crunching seemed to grow even louder once the verse had finished. “The word of the Lord.”
“Praise be to God,” The Parish responded in unison, marking the conclusion of the reading. It was when Luke was about to start the Homily, explaining his interpretation of the reading and what should be taken from it when he saw it. When he saw him.
Samuel Rickton was eating bees. Not Honeycomb, but bees. He was sitting at attention, seeming to be listening more than one would expect an eight-year-old to normally be, staring up at Father Luke and holding his ziplock bag. But where it usually held honeycomb, inside seemed to be small, wriggling, and very much alive bees. Bees that were being plucked out of the bag and snapped into his mouth like candy.
Father Luke froze for a second when he locked eyes with the boy. The child looked innocent, swinging his feet that were too short to reach the ground while seated, and absently chewing. He seemed completely oblivious to anyone besides Father Luke, and the priest additionally noticed that the people sitting as close as directly next to him seemed just as unaware. As hazy and distant as ever, if not even more pronounced now. Could they not see what’s happening? Luke wondered. Or can they, and they simply don’t care? A child eating honeycomb was one thing to ignore, a child eating live bees was beyond that. A child eating bees was worth acknowledging. Maybe even worth fearing.
But there was nothing Father Luke could do. He stood at the altar, saying the mass, and everyone was watching expectantly. For a brief moment, the man considered stopping things. Maybe ending it early, before communion if he had to, and calling the police to come and collect the child. But something in little Samuel Rickton’s expression made Luke cease to consider that an option almost as quickly as the idea had popped into his head. At that moment, Luke had gotten an overwhelming sense that, regardless of what he did, Samuel would not stop. So Luke continued while Samuel nodded along to what he was saying, eyes bright, still chewing.
“Within this reading, we must consider the Lord’s intent,” Father Luke began. It took great effort but he was able to tear his eyes away from Samuel and try to ignore the boy. He chose to look back out to the other parishioners who were still engaged with what he was saying. “This gospel is often used during funeral masses, as it addresses how everything may happen for a reason within God’s greater plan. There is a time for everything, and each of these things happens when the Lord feels it is meant to.”
Crunch. It was louder this time. Do not look. Do not look.
Father Luke took a deep breath and forced himself to continue speaking. He felt his face growing pale and even noticed concern on the faces of some of the regulars in the front row. Two older women exchanged glances with each other. A man murmured something in his wife’s ear. One of the altar boys gave Luke a sideways glance. But what should have been a look of concern on the altar boy’s face was morphing into something that, to Luke in his hysteria, seemed more like a challenge. Acknowledge him. I dare you. See what will happen.
“Many believe” Luke clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to remain grounded. “that the phrase ‘There’s a time and a place for everything’ may be derived from this verse. An idea that anything we see, we are meant to see. And anything we feel” -crunch- “is felt so that we may learn and grow from it to become better Christians and followers.”
Father Luke began to feel a faint buzzing in his ears. It was quieter than the crunching was, so gentle that the man figured he was imagining it. Just as he was likely imagining the bees. He simply must not have gotten enough sleep last night. Or maybe the lights above him were too hot in his robes, and it was making him feel faint and causing his mind to wander.
“But this also shows” Luke took a labored breath “that there is time in heaven for any activity we may choose to do. There will be infinite time, so if we are perhaps not ready to feel something, to grieve, or to accept” the buzzing was getting louder. “as long as we are good people, we will be granted this time within the Kingdom of God.” Luke continued to focus as hard as he could on only those in the front of the church as he signed off his gospel. “The Gospel of the Lord.”
“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.” the parish responded in unison. Luke did not see anyone’s mouth open as they spoke. He prayed it was a trick of the light.
As quickly as he could without sprinting there, Father Luke made his way back to his chair towards the back while the altar boys began to prepare the communion Eucharist from the tabernacle so that those in the parish who were able to could come and receive it. The organ was playing a song while this was done, and Luke was certain the parish was singing along. He could see their mouths moving in unison while they looked at their hymnal books, but instead of music, all that he could hear was that incessant buzzing.
Without realizing it, Luke had begun to cry silently as he made his way back up to the front to bless the host and allow people to begin lining up for communion. The servers divided the wafers and wine into separate lines so that the parishioners would move through the motion faster. Luke sighed with relief when he realized that he could actually hear the communion hymn the choir was singing as the host began to be handed out.
Father Luke, today, had ended up with a goblet of wine instead of wafers. Fewer people drank the wine, most opting only to have a communion wafer for various reasons. Age, sensitivity to alcohol, a problem with germs for sharing a glass with so many despite it being wiped between drinks, all of these seemed valid to Father Luke, so when people skipped him, he did not take it personally.
He should have known Samuel Rickton would not skip the wine. Luke had to hold back the urge to scream when he looked down and saw the boy standing expectantly, waiting for the cup to be handed to him. The buzzing reached a crescendo, and Luke felt like he could feel the bees flying around inside his head. Samuel’s face was not one of malice, fear, or worry. He acted as though nothing abnormal had happened at all. Father Luke did not see the bag of bees with him.
“The blood of Christ.” he practically whispered as he handed the goblet to the child. Samuel smiled up at him and wrapped his sticky fingers around the cup.
“Amen.”
Luke watched Samuel’s mouth open wide when he said it, and the man could have counted every tooth with great clarity. From the ones that all normal humans have to the extra row that shouldn’t be able to fit in a mouth that small.
When the cup was handed back to the priest, inside was not wine, but rather the goblet had been filled to the brim with sickly sweet honey.
Father Luke would not perform another Sunday mass.