38) Rain. Rain. Walking in clothes heavier than one's self is a discipline known to penitents, deep-sea fishermen, and those with no home. There may be other groups, but they don't occur to me under this deluge. I've not gone on about my boots. My glasses have been a silent prescription. I have not worn them a single hour. They were made for the desert. Sure. Of my boots, this is the one happy note of my trudgery. Within them my feet are numb to the cold, impervious to the rough shocks of this awful country. Whether fording muddy pools, beshited streams, or decorating the earth with tracks upon tracks, they've proven a plus. They have helped with my balance, very much needed because of my ruined toes, the Doctor's caring focus it seems so long ago. They will have to be removed. Frostbite has killed them, finally. I think I now know the why of the pocket knife. I am used to discarding anatomical bits. My body-wide suturings tell me I'm discriminating. O.K. I must find a place to chop.
Rio Gallegos. So a weathered sign reads. I find a little church with separate living quarters. They are the first structures I come upon or see, when the rain relents. Such nice little shacks. Far better than any of my recent dwellings. Except for the cave, who would not prefer a cave, cast by the earth itself, to a hovel, however well protected by a local god?
I kick in the front doors of the church and stand there before the divine, as a fierce, muddy mess. The local god is deaf and blind to foreigners. Good news. I take comfort. I am not seen by the deity. I think gods provide what amounts to a black cloak for those who do not know them. And they speak in only one way, one tongue. Neither do spirits know how to tell their worshippers that a crude, alien thing passed through them. I am a red ribbon drifting in swells on the surface of a sea. An empty bag snagged in brush. Incongruous, but pure background rubbish. This Sunday the sermon will be about how their front doors came to be kicked in, not with any accuracy about who might have done it. Locals did it, kids, in search of the chalice wine, it'll be said. The parishioners can take it. They crave signs. Contrarian events make them more convicted believers.
I have intruded to find a dry place to review Dr. Creep's divine brochures, and to remove a couple of my offending toes. What the hell, I'll find the chalice wine. It does sound good, I must admit. I will drink it only for the credibility of the blame to follow upon the kids. And I will drink to dull the pain to come. Where, oh, where. I bust open a few low cabinets. Then high cabinets. I cannot find the wine anywhere. I do not think to look in the refrigerator until the hollow statuary itself has been smashed. I've made quite a mess. Those damn kids.
The wine tastes like worthless grape juice. It is hard to have the patience for the alcohol. There has to be something to transubstantiation to endure this cold, sugary swill. But, then...Magic! I begin to feel warmly stupid. Time for my surgery. No sooner have I removed my shoes then... Who is there? Gasps and cries echo in the church. People have come. Maybe from the other building. They stammer about damage. I peek over a pew to watch them rush about. Seems they've noticed the clear muddy prints I've left on the floor. They follow them in to the first room I rudely searched. More sighs of alarm. 'Dios mio'. I just may learn this language before they're rid of me.
I've heard enough. I get the hell out of there. I am out and running. I am leaving. It would have been a simple memory had not a child seen me.