In Which A Man Of God Meets A Healer of Men
Frank stepped off the gangplank and let the flow of passengers carry him through into the arrivals hall. He knew more than one of the finely dressed passengers was staring at him, but he didn't make any attempt to cover either his tattoos or his clerical collar.
He wasn't here for them. Ignoring the rows of waiting carriages, Frank walked away from the docks.
Frank wasn't sure what he was expecting when he bought passage for the city; he had trusted in his faith so far, and had always ended up where he needed to be. He knew some of his fat-as-butter brothers in the church had found lucrative sinecure in the upcity parishes, but down here, among the mud and the slums, there seemed little market for salvation.
At first, the locals were wary of him, almost belligerent as they challenged his beliefs. Frank just smiled and kept his bible closed. "My faith is my own," he'd tell them calmly. "And your faith is yours. Each of us has our own sense of the spiritual. I'm only offering to help you find the words to express it."
He wasn't offended by their disdain. Frank had had a life before the priesthood called, he knew respect had to be earned.
So Frank rolled up his sleeves and set to work. He fetched water for the elderly and those mothers too tired from dealing with half a dozen small children. He helped mend fences (literal and figurative) and paint walls. He chatted to the old maids sweeping stoops and the young wives manning the market stalls. He ambled, unoffensive and pleasant, through their lives every day until he was just another one of them.
Then, and only then, did they call on him.
Frank made the sign of the cross as he stepped over the threshold. He'd been at enough sickbeds that had become deathbeds to know the signs. The young daughter, eyes red from weeping, clutched Frank's shoulder. "Pa used to have a little faith, before ma died. He's asking for confession."
Frank smiled and patted her hand before he went to kneel by the man's bed. The dying man clutched Frank's hand in a deathy grip as he whispered his secrets. Frank committed them to memory as he eased the man back, thumbing oil over his feverish temple as he whispered the final prayers.
The man's grip on Frank's hand weakened as together they whispered the final benediction. "Amen," Frank breathed.
The old man didn't.
Frank stood, stepped back as the man's grieving family swooped in. Only then did Frank notice the shabby figure in the corner. Frank nodded respectfully, and the other man nodded back curtly, like one professional to another.
Frank turned his attentions to seeing the man buried properly, and didn't notice the shabby stranger leave.
The second time they meet, it's in the middle of the night. There had been an accident at the docks, and someone had called him in to say the right words and hold the hands of the two young wives as they waited to see whether they were now widows.
The sky was going pink as the shabby man stumbled into the room. In the low light, Frank could see the man's black clothes were shiny, dyed with blood. But he managed a smile. "They're going to live. We saved their hands, but we won't know if they're damaged until the bandages come off."
The wives rush to be with their husbands, and Frank sketches a salute. "Excellent job, doctor," he hazards. But it's not much of a guess, he's heard the people here talk of this man.
The doctor stares at him, unreadable. "You going to tell me it was god's will?" he all but spits.
Frank shrugs, keeps his posture open. "Maybe. But if I was giving credit, I think he'd agree it should go to a doctor's skill first."
The doctor stares at him a moment longer, then gives a grudging nod. "I'm Gerard."
"Frank," he holds out his hand, and Gerard hesitates before shaking it.
After that, Frank saw Gerard everywhere. Sometimes, Frank would arrive just as Gerard was stepping back. Once or twice, Frank sent a runner to find the doctor when he figured there might still be something left to save. They settled into a strange, macabre kind of working relationship delineated by their overlapping areas of authority.
The old woman who had seen them both called out this night was being tended by her daughters for burial as Frank sank down next to Gerard on the stoop. "You know, we have got to stop meeting like this," Frank said, knocking his shoulder against Gerard.
Gerard snorted. "We're the talk of the season, you and I," Gerard shot back in a monotone, making Frank laugh quietly, still mindful of the grieving family inside. "I didn't see you when old man Mackenzie passed last week."
Frank nodded. "I was out of the country," he said. He'd wondered, vaguely, if Gerard had noticed.
Gerard scuffed his shoes through the dirt. They were good shoes, Frank noted absently, but good shoes that had seen better decades. "That's hardly fair to the people who rely on you for spiritual leadership."
"I'm not a leader," Frank corrected him quickly. "I merely guide those who seek a way. Besides," he added lightly, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Very few religions on the market these days do without the omnipotent, omnipresent deity. I figure he can cover me until I get back."
Gerard chuckled. "Only you, Frank, could make religion sound like having a really good butler."
Frank rolled his eyes. "Well, my Lord, you know how hard it is to find good help these days."
The joke falls flat and Gerard scuffs the dirt again nervously. Frank puts the pieces together. "It is, isn't it? My Lord, I mean."
Gerard looked over at him. "Not anymore," he said, deadly serious.
Frank could feel the weight of that story pressing down on Gerard, but knew instinctly that now was not the time to ask for it. "Well, then, what is the correct honorific? I do so hate to get these things wrong," he said drolly.
Gerard bit his lip, sounding suddenly nervous. "Frank, it's not--not anymore, nothing like--" and then he shook himself, as if shaking off the weight of that world. "It's Doctor Way, now." He smiled a little crookedly, "Or you could just keep saying Gerard."
Frank nodded, like that settled everything. "Gerard it is. I always get titles wrong. Did I ever tell you the time I couldn't remember what the male version of Dutchess was and called the man at Dutchey?"
Gerard laughed. "You never did, but I don't doubt you."
"Good," Frank said, slinging his arm over Gerard's shoulders. "I have an honest face, you shouldn't doubt me."
"Sure, the face is honest, but what about the rest of you?"
"Are you doubting the word of a humble holy man, my lord?"
"Never."
Frank laughed. "You should. Holy men are the worst petty crooks in the universe!"
Gerard rolled his eyes. "What a stunning personal reccomendation you make for yourself!"
"I'm a holy man, we're honest!" Frank even managed to keep a straight face.
"Yes," Gerard said drily. "That sounds so much more convincing."
"Just no pleasing you, is there?"
Gerard laughed in surprise. "I'm a hard man to please, but a simple man to make happy."
Frank grins at him. "Ooh, complex. I could write homilies about you."
Gerard blinks in a way that is probably supposed to resemble a lady batting her eyelashes. It's not entirely effective, but Frank lets it slide. "Yes, that's definitely a morality lesson for the flock."
Gerard relaxes, gently shoving Frank's shoulder. "Screw you too," he says, but he's laughing.