seen it a hundred times. So why, on the morning he’d held Rose’s life in his hands, did he seem paralyzed? What did he see that day that he’d never seen before? Maybe he really was blinded by the light. Or maybe his own warped mind had conjured up a vision. With Gooding dead, there was no way to know for sure. Cork was more than willing to accept another possibility, however, one that the life and death of Solemn Winter Moon, the simple faith of people like Rose McKenzie and the family from Warroad, and the reality of his own experience while lost in a whiteout on Fisheye Lake had opened him to. It was possible that what had stayed Gooding’s hand was nothing less than a miracle.
Near the confessional, the new parish priest waited. His name was Father Edward Green. He was an earnest young man, still a little uncertain in his manner. He was half Cork’s age, and Cork had trouble thinking of him as “Father” anything.
“Thank you for agreeing to this,” Cork said.
“No problem.” The priest smiled.
“It’s something I wanted to do before I put this on.” Cork held out his badge.
“I understand. Welcome back to the church.”
The young priest didn’t really understand. It wasn’t the church Cork was returning to. It was the journey. Meloux was right. In his search for that place where his soul would feel undivided and finally at peace, Cork knew he still faced a long road. He could have chosen any number of paths, but the religion of his youth and his family seemed to him as good as any other.
“Shall we?” The priest stepped into the confessional and pulled the curtain.
Cork entered the other side.
There was a moment of silence, then the priest said, “Go ahead.”
Cork crossed himself, surprised how natural the gesture felt after so long an absence.
“Bless me, Father,” he began, “for I have sinned.”
