Kiss of the Bees

John’s.

A Mil-gahn and a Jesuit priest, Father John was in his eighties and already retired when Davy first met him. He had been there, in the house at Gates Pass and imprisoned in the root cellar along with Rita and Davy, on the day of the battle with the evil Ohb. Father John had died a little more than a year later.

In all the hubbub of preparation for Diana Ladd’s wedding to Brandon Walker, no one had noticed how badly Father John was failing. And that was exactly as he had intended. The aged priest had agreed to perform the ceremony, and he used all his strength to ensure that nothing marred the joy of the happy young couple on their wedding day. Of all the people gathered at San Xavier for the morning ceremony, only Rita had sensed what performing the ceremony was costing the old priest in terms of physical exertion and vitality.

Honoring his silence, she too, had kept quiet about it—at least to most of the bridal party. But not to Davy.

“Watch out for Father John, Olhoni,” Nana Dahd murmured as she straightened the boy’s tie and smoothed his tuxedo in preparation to Davy’s walking his mother down the aisle. “If he looks too tired, come and get me right away.”

The admonition puzzled Davy. “Is Father John sick?”

“He’s old,” Rita answered. “He’s an old, old man.”

“Is he going to die?” Davy asked.

“We’re all going to die sometime,” she had answered.

“Even you?”

She smiled. “Even me.”

But Father John had made it through the wedding mass with flying colors. He died three days later, while Brandon and Diana Walker were still in Mazatlan on their honeymoon. The frantic barking of Davy’s dog, Bone, had awakened Davy in the middle of the night.

Keeping the dog with him for protection as he peered out through a front window, Davy saw a man climbing out of a big black car parked in the driveway. As soon as the man stepped up onto the porch, Davy recognized Father Damien, the young priest from San Xavier.

Even Davy knew that having a priest come to the house in the middle of the night could not mean good news. He hurried to the door. “What’s wrong?” he demanded through the still-closed door as the priest’s finger moved toward the button on the bell.

“I’m looking for someone named Rita Antone,” Father Damien said hesitantly, as though he wasn’t quite sure whether or not his information was correct. “Does she live here?”

“What is it, Davy?” Rita asked, materializing silently out of the darkness at the back of the house.

“It’s Father Damien,” Davy answered. “He’s looking for you.”

Nana Dahd unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door. “I’m Rita,” she said.

The priest looked relieved. “It’s Father John, Mrs. Antone,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour of the night, but he’s very ill. He’s asking for you.”

Rita nodded. “Get dressed right away, Davy,” she said. “We must hurry.”

They left the house a few minutes later. There was never any question of Davy’s staying at the house by himself. Ever since Andrew Carlisle had burst into the house on that summer afternoon, there had been an unspoken understanding between Rita and Diana that Davy was not to be left alone. On their way to town, Rita rode in the front seat with the priest while Davy huddled in the back.

“Where is he?” Nana Dahd asked.

“He was at Saint Mary’s,” the priest answered. “In the intensive care unit, but this afternoon he made them let him out. He’s back at the rectory.”

At the mission, Rita took Davy by the hand and dragged him with her as Father Damien led the way. They found Father John sitting propped up on a mound of pillows in a small, cell-like room. He lifted one feeble hand in greeting. On the white chenille bedspread where his hand had rested lay Father John’s rosary—his losalo—with its black shiny beads and olive wood crucifix.

Davy Ladd was an Anglo—a Mil-gahn—but he had been properly raised—brought up in the Indian way. He melted quietly into the background while Rita sank down on the hard-backed chair beside the dying man’s bed. Out of sight in the shadowy far corner of the room, Davy sat cross-legged and listened to the murmured conversation, hanging on every mysterious word.

“Thank you for coming, Dancing Quail,” Father John whispered. His voice was very weak. He wheezed when he spoke. The air rustled in his throat like winter wind whispering through sun-dried grass.

“You should have called,” Rita chided gently. “I would have come sooner.”

Father John shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me. I was in intensive care. Only relatives . . .”

Rita nodded and then waited patiently, letting Father John rest awhile before he continued. “I wanted to ask your forgiveness,” he said. “Please.”

“I forgave you long ago,” she returned. “When you agreed to help us with the evil Ohb, I forgave you then.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

There was another long period of silence. Nodding, Davy almost drifted off to sleep before Father John’s voice startled him awake once more.

“Please tell me about your son,” the old man said quietly. “The one who disappeared in Korea. His name was Gordon, I believe. Was that the child? Was he my son?”

Rita shook her head. There was a small reading lamp on the table beside Father John’s bed. The dim light from