One may define the human being, therefore, as the one who seeks the truth. – Fides et Ratio, Karol Wojtyla, Saint Pope John Paul II 

Fr. Ed waved out the window of the truck to the Canadian Customs agent as he accelerated north to Creston. His device chirped.

Stop by my place first. I have something for you.

Johnny Q. always ‘had something.’ A gift, an extra set of clothes, bootleg liquor before Ed told him about his drinking problem, anything Fr. Ed wanted or needed, in addition to the food, clothes, and medical supplies Johnny procured for the needy on both sides of the border.

The still unfinished cross-border consolidation of dioceses brought Fr. Ed to Holy Cross in Creston, British Columbia, several times a month. His introduction to Johnny Q. followed soon after his first visits.

He was late leaving Sandpoint. Mrs. Gale, the manager of the Community Services Center, was grilling him about the situation in Couer d’Alene, and whether Fr. Ed thought the conflict between the tribes and the local governments was going to escalate. The killing of two Couer d’Alene tribe members during a recent shoot out was a reminder that the issues from the last conflict remained unresolved. Water was even tighter than before, the land grabs continued, and the militias now controlled two more city councils surrounding the lake. The encroachments on tribal territory accelerated. The governor made his usual futile attempts to intercede, to no avail. Water is for fighting, the old saying went, and proved to be an effective accelerant to all the other regional conflicts.

Fr. Ed followed the directions Johnny sent and parked the truck outside a dilapidated industrial building on the outskirts of Creston. He climbed a flight of worn wooden steps up to what looked like an office and rapped on the metal storm door. He heard movement inside, muffled voices, then Johnny opened the door part way, leaning out, naked to the waist. 

“Ya-hey, EBR! How’s it going?”  Fr. Ed smiled at the teasing nickname. EBR was better than Eddie Black Robe.

“Hello, Johnny. I’ve got a load of stuff for you.”

“That’s great, padre. Give me a sec while I get dressed and we’ll go to the shed. Come on in.” Johnny glanced back, then opened the door wider. Fr. Ed stepped into the office, apparently converted into an apartment. A ragged couch against the wall, a coffee table in front piled with empty beer cans, a towering bong, weed scattered on a plate. No syringes, thank God. Ed offered a quick prayer for Johnny’s health. He heard voices from the back, one female. Johnny returned, pulling on a sweater. He sat down and stepped into worn cowboy boots, no socks, his long black hair swaying as he hunched over to pull each boot on. He looked up at Ed watching him, a big grin mysteriously unifying the jumble of ethnic features that made him appear intimidating when he wanted, which wasn’t often, at least around Fr. Ed.

They went outside and Johnny directed Fr. Ed to pull the truck to the back. Ed drove around and maneuvered backwards into a loading bay. Johnny lifted up a sliding door and went to a stack of boxes, pulled a large knife from his pocket and deftly flicked it open. He neatly sliced the box open with the razor-sharp blade. He grinned again at Fr. Ed’s concerned look at the knife as he put it away. He reached into the box and lifted out a brand-new child’s winter coat.

“What do you think?” he said, holding it up for Fr. Ed to inspect.

“Wonderful! How many? Different sizes?”

“These six boxes here. I think there are a couple of sizes.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“Ah, padre, you know. Fell off a truck,” Johnny replied with a wink.

Once again, Fr. Ed had a twinge about the assistance he’d come to rely on from Johnny. He suspected Johnny’s business wasn’t anything the government on either side of the border approved of, but he was such a reliably generous benefactor that it was hard to decline his donations. Fr. Abimbola from Holy Cross, his Canadian counterpart, kept Johnny at arm’s length, supposedly at the direction of Monsignor Murray in Nelson. Being so far from the Bishop in Boise had some advantages.

They opened the back of Fr. Ed’s panel truck and Johnny inspected the boxes stacked there, filling about two thirds of the space. 

“Let’s make some room for the coats,” Johnny advised. They shifted items around, and Fr. Ed noticed Johnny inspecting other boxes in the process. He ended up pulling four out and setting them aside. Fr. Ed gave him a questioning look.

“These are for me. Toys from one of my peeps down in Sandpoint. We’re doing a Christmas drive.” Fr. Ed nodded, concealing his skepticism. They loaded the coats into the truck.

“Do you have time for a beer, padre?”

Fr. Ed glanced at his watch. “Uh, I guess. Do you have anything else?”

“Still off the sauce, huh?”

“I’m trying, Johnny, I’m trying.”

“Good for you. Sure, I’ve got some sodas.”

They returned to the apartment and Johnny cleared most of the detritus from last night’s celebration. He moved the bong and the plate of marijuana to the counter in the kitchenette area. He handed Fr. Ed a Canada Dry.

“So, what do you hear about the stuff down in CDA? You think the Couer d’Alenes are going to keep their cool?”

Fr. Ed shook his head. “I don’t know, Johnny. I’ll be honest, I don’t follow the politics down there very closely. I’ve got my hands full taking care of my parish. Which reminds me, when am I going to see you at Mass?”

Johnny laughed. “Next time I’m in Bonners Ferry, padre, I promise. But I’m not sure it’s safe for me down there. What do you think?”

“You’ll always be safe with me.” He opened his drink and took a swig. Johnny gave him a knowing smile. They left unstated the growing presence of the white supremacist and separatist alliance and how they impacted the local parishes and the Catholic Church in the Pacific Northwest. The fissures in American and Canadian societies didn’t respect the sanctuary of the church doors. Parishes had split, some closed, others flirted with or embraced schismatic doctrines. He was fortunate that his community in Bonner’s Ferry remained mostly out of the fray, except when they had to accept refugees from down south when conflicts erupted. Fr. Ed had his relationships with like-minded community groups in Sand Point and Couer d’Alene, and he focused on the pastoral duties that he enjoyed most, steering clear of the political and theological conflicts.

“What’s happening?” Fr. Ed followed up.

“The usual. The kooks are encroaching into the reservation, buying up lakefront property, working to control access to the lake and the water treatment capacity, gradually taking over the local governments, pressing the tribe on all sides. The Couer d’Alenes never really went hard on the autonomy thing because of the tourism. Things seemed to be working out for them. The other tribes in the Salish Confederacy made other choices. I don’t know if that’s going to work out for them, either.”

Johnny grew thoughtful and Fr. Ed tried to wait him out but his curiosity got the better of him.

“What do you mean?”

Johnny looked up, serious. “We’re still playing the white man’s games. Maybe we have better guns and drones now, and people can make a living, but we still aren’t making our own decisions. Thank god for the women.”

“What do you mean?”

“Indigenous women have always lead, but quietly. Elected office, negotiating settlements, getting land back, cleaning up the environment. The militias, all the weapons, sometimes that runs up against other stuff, stuff that makes life better. Like I said, thank god for the women.”

“Damn straight!” The unseen woman in the back poked her head out of the doorway in back. “Don’t you forget that, Johnny.”

Johnny laughed. “Father Ed, this is Marlie. She keeps me honest.”

“Nice to meet you, Father.” She disappeared back into the bedroom before Ed could reply.

“So anyway, what I was going to say is, who I’m watching is the wendigo. They make their own decisions.”

“Wendigo?” 

Johnny smiled. “You know, the monsters, the grendels.”

Fr. Ed’s interest was piqued. “You know them?”

Johnny looked up with a conspiratorial smile. “Some. Let’s just say they are a part of the games being played between the militias, the governments, the Canadians…everyone is working an angle, and the wendigo have always been involved.”

“Games? You mean the push for more tribal autonomy?”

Johnny shook his head. “Cutting us all loose from Interior was a big step, and the tribes making their own adoption rules to bring in more vets to serve in the militias, giving them membership, it really goosed things. But let’s not kid ourselves, those militias are just pawns in the bigger games being played. Everyone’s got their proxies. The tribes were lured in by the money, and maybe they get some other good stuff out of it, but at the end of the day, they now are wrapped up in the games between all the white people.”

“Is that why you never registered with any of the tribes?”

Johnny laughed. “I love that you think I have those kind of principles. No, it just happened. I’m métis, little m. My grandmother on my mother’s side was Cree, my dad’s father was Blood Blackfeet. Everyone else married all sorts of mixed-up people, Blacks, Inuit, Hispanic, Chinese. I don’t fit in anywhere.”  Johnny took a long swig from his beer. “That’s what the tribes are like these days. Those militias? Once they started getting money, suddenly white people were all interested in becoming skins. It’s funny, back in the old days, tribes swapped people all the time, taking prisoners, trading, or tribes breaking up and joining others. But the identity was the group – living, hunting, protecting each other. When the whites came along, and especially in recent years, now an individual had to claim and prove identity, but without the group. It doesn’t make sense. Who can you be, outside your group?”  He shook his head. “One thing they succeeded with, one way we’ve become whiter – amnesia. A lot of us don’t remember our own past, just like the whites. Just chasing a buck, or a hit, a high, or the next gadget.”  He stared out the window into the forests around Creston. “But back to the wendigo. They know who they are, they have their tribe, and they walk free. And now they help us,” he concluded with a wink and a swig from his beer.

“Have you met any?”

“Me? A couple of times. Mostly I hear about it from others, talk amongst the people. They have all sorts of interactions, here and down in the States. Speak our languages, too.”

“Really?”

“The first time I know of, around here at least, was in Glacier, up in the hills. An old Blackfeet woman was out in the park foraging, picking herbs, pretty far from the road. She fell and hurt her leg at the bottom of a gulch. Even that time of year, it can get cold, and who knows what would have happened. So, one of them finds her, spoke some Salish. Even though she was Blackfeet, she recognized it, she replied in Siksika to him, and then English. He carried her out, but then kept coming back, and she taught him Siksika, called him Naked Bear.  The Salish call them goblins. Whatever, they help out the tribes, and when the government started sending military advisors with all the other stuff, every once in a while, they would show up as well.  I can tell you, they’re a big help for me and my business.”  He gave a sly smile.

Fr. Ed frowned. “You know, I think I met one.”

Johnny sat up. “Really? How?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I think he may be one. In the parking lot at my parish. He asked about taking the sacraments, converting.”

Johnny let out a guffaw and slapped his thigh, spilling his beer. “Now I’ve heard everything! That’s some blackrobe shit, EBR!  Converting the wendigo!”  Marlie came out of the room and leaned against the wall, listening.

Fr. Ed managed an embarrassed smile. “If this…person is what I think, do I have anything to worry about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, personally. My safety.”

Johnny laughed again. “He approached you, right? No, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Not unless you’re planning to throw him in a school and mess him up.”  Fr. Ed laughed weakly, and Johnny regretted the jibe. “Ah, I’m just fucking with you, enit?”

“Be nice, Johnny,” Marlie chided.

“Sorry, padre. No, you should be fine. I’m curious, though, how that all works out.  Keep me posted.”

“I will.”

“You be careful, Father. That’s weird one would approach you like that,” Marlie commented as she cleaned up the apartment, picking up empties and trash. Johnny focused on Ed.

“I don’t think your new friend is what you should worry about. There’s something going on down there your way. The smoke I’m seeing, things could get rezzy real quick. There’s some real warrior shit brewing. Somebody is trying to start something. You should tell your Catholic friends down in CDA they’re playing with fire getting handsy with those kooks. When they say one true religion, that does NOT include the Pope.”

They finished their drinks and said goodbyes. Johnny laughingly asked Fr. Ed to give his regards to Fr. Abimbola when he dropped off the rest of the load at Holy Cross.

Once the priest was gone, Johnny went out to the warehouse and opened one of the new boxes. He sorted through the toys, took out a stuffed bear and found the little black dot on the tag. He flicked out his knife and made a careful incision along a seam. He worked his finger in and felt around. After a few probes, he felt the hard edge of the shielded packet containing the contraband. Although he was never sure exactly what his payloads were, he knew this method was favored by the parties trafficking in embargoed AI chips. These would end up in some weapons system or illicit research effort somewhere. Whatever, as long they paid well.

***

Fr. Ed’s trip back to Bonner’s Ferry was uneventful. The border crossing was as smooth as usual, the CBP agents chatting with him while they scanned the new boxes. Most of the agents were either members of his community or knew people he knew.  

His work for this long day was almost done. Offload boxes of food and clothes in Bonner’s Ferry, drop off the rest in Sandpoint at the Community Center and then the food pantry, then finally back home.

He pulled into the Salvation Army parking lot in Bonner’s Ferry and went around to the back and opened the truck. He rearranged the boxes in the back, organizing the ones he’d offload here, then rearranged the load to minimize the shifting that might occur on the back roads that lay ahead for the last leg of his deliveries. He glanced at his wrist and noted the time. He wouldn’t be home before midnight at this rate, but he had to complete this task. The Sandpoint pantry was low on supplies and they were also concerned about the possibility of refugees. The children would need these winter clothes as well. There was no helping the time challenges, especially if he wanted to continue avoiding taking help from Mickey Thorsten.

He jumped down from the truck and lifted another box. As he turned, he startled and uttered an indecorous expletive at the sight of a towering figure in the shadow behind the door.

“What the…” he blurted.

“I’m sorry to frighten you, Father. It’s me.” Fr. Ed’s heart slowed a little at the recognition of the deep lisping voice of his visitor the evening before. Seeing the hulking mass up close, even in these concealing shadows, strengthened his suspicions about his visitor’s true nature.

“What…how can I help you?” Fr. Ed stuttered.

“As I said, I want to become a Catholic. What must I do?”

Fr. Ed took a deep breath, holding the box in front of himself as a barrier between him and his visitor. “There is a process, education, training. It’s a long road. But first, I must discuss this with the Bishop.”

“Who?”

“My superior. My leader.”

When the figure moved, he could just barely hear a rustle of fabric. The shadows shifted with the movement making it difficult to pinpoint exactly where he stood. Fr. Ed continued to fill the awkward silence. 

“I still don’t know your name, where you live, anything about you. Part of this process is you sharing who you are as a person, discussing your motivations, your readiness to make this journey. It’s not a trivial thing.”  He shifted the box in his arms.

“I’ve made many difficult journeys. I am ready for this one. Is there an ordeal?”

Fr. Ed noted the hint of defiance and pride, as well as determination.

“Um, I’m not sure what you mean. Let me finish unloading this, and we can talk, but not for long. I have a long drive tonight.”

He carried the box into the warehouse, then as he returned to the truck, he startled to see the figure step into the light and lift the largest box. Now Fr. Ed could see he definitely wore some sort of camouflage. Together they unloaded the remaining boxes. When they finished, the other stood in front of him and lowered the hood of his cloak. Fr. Ed suppressed a shudder.

“You are a…?”

The figure straightened.

“What does that matter?”

“I…I don’t know. It’s not…um… typical. You might be the first of your kind to ask to become a Catholic.”

“There may be others.”

Fr. Ed swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, then cleared his throat. “So, what is your name? You have one?”

“Of course I have a name, Father. I am called Astyanax. All my people have names, as thinking individuals with separate identities should.”

Fr. Ed accepted the rebuke with familiar humility. This clearly wasn’t some wild creature of the lurid stories common in the media. Beast, monster, grendel: none of those words seemed relevant to this…person standing in front of him, challenging him confidently, seeking to join the communion of saints. Even more reason to consult the Bishop. This must be handled delicately.

“Tell me about yourself.” What followed was as fascinating as surreal. After finishing the unloading, Fr. Ed stood at the back of the truck, doors still open, listening to Astyanax pour forth his story, his questions, the challenges of living in the mountains of Idaho, Montana and up into Canada. Eventually Fr. Ed sat on the back of the truck against cases of soft drinks. He opened one for himself and offered one to Astyanax, who accepted cautiously, sniffed it, then drank with gusto, the can looking tiny wrapped in his taloned fingers.

They continued their conversation, undisturbed in the darkness of the parking lot outside the warehouse, Fr. Ed’s schedule forgotten. They spoke of the grendel’s family, their history, and their hardships. Fr. Ed was amazed at the creature’s knowledge and the kinds of questions it asked, some of which Ed had to look up on his device while they sat there. His knowledge of scripture, though incomplete, was particularly intriguing.

Finally, they were interrupted by the sweep of headlights from a vehicle pulling into a different section of the industrial park. Fr. Ed was astonished to see how quickly Astyanax disappeared into concealment, then as quickly reappeared.  Fr. Ed looked at his watch and saw it was almost eleven.

“I must go. I have a long way to drive tonight.”

Astyanax acknowledged this with a grunt. “When do we speak again to begin the process?”

Fr. Ed shuffled his feet, looking down. “I can’t…I must…I have to speak with the Bishop, my superior. This is not something I can do by myself. I must seek his permission.”

“Will he grant it?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Fr. Ed was alarmed by a low rumble, not quite a growl, but not reassuring.

“I am defying my superiors; why can’t you?” Astyanax asked.

***

In the truck heading south to Sandpoint, Fr. Ed stared into the darkness but his mind was beyond the headlights. How should he broach this with the Bishop? He already had an appointment to see him, but not in person, and only for routine administrative updates. Maybe combine with a visit to the high school? Fr. Ed mulled how to present this without jeopardizing his chance to begin developing the youth programs that were his passion. The more he thought about it, this situation could go either way: a huge opportunity, a chance to move on with his career into something more suited to his strengths, or it could end up in catastrophe if mishandled. Once again, he checked himself, offering a prayer of contrition for his pride, asking for assistance to stay focused on the needs of his parishioners and the diocese he served.

How to get down to Boise? He didn’t have time to drive. That would eat up two days, and he couldn’t afford even that time to be away from his duties.

With resignation, he realized that despite his misgivings, he’d have to ask a favor from Mickey Thorsten. A prominent local Catholic in Couer d’Alene, generous and active in every aspect of the parish, Fr. Ed also knew he was more than casually involved with the separatist movement. He financed the expansion of the new church in CDA for one of the Integralist parishes, only barely still members of the diocese due to their open defiance of the Vatican on pretty much every issue since Vatican II.  The current Pope’s edict to maintain relations with all factions, no matter how openly schismatic, complicated the job of every Bishop across the country, especially those here in the areas involved in the worst parts of the abortive secession attempt before the Fast War.

That conflict and the lingering tensions are what drove the lucrative cross border trade in drugs, weapons, and human bodies, generating enough ancillary income to provide a wealthy lifestyle to a whole segment of the local economy. Thorsten was better than most at concealing the sources of his affluence and donated generously around the community.  He was also adept at playing all sides, often serving as a bridge and mediator between factions, and was always just on this side of the law, cultivating friendships, alliances, and dependencies. Although he didn’t know for sure, Fr. Ed suspected his friendship with Johnny Q. somehow was connected to Mickey Thorsten.  

Consistent with the Bishop’s mandate to maintain good relations with all the other parishes, Fr. Ed did his best to play nice. But there were only so many food drives and winter coat donation collaborations that could paper over the profound differences in how they acted on their beliefs about women, minorities, and gay people. And the company some kept was nothing but scandal waiting to happen. Still, Jesus welcomes all. And the Bishop was always there, urging him to reach out and maintain those good relations. Fr. Ed did his best.

But Mickey Thorsten could get him to Boise and back in a day, and all it would take is a phone call.

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