Free Mercy by Alissa York

refrain.
    “Dominus vobiscum,”
he says throatily, extending his arms, believing he can distinguish her clear, steady voice from amid the congregation’s reply. He flings his gaze wildly over the flock, and still it returns to her, her moon-shaped face serene, a fit setting for the unearthly reflections of her eyes.
    Later, during the minor elevation, he is again distracted, this time by the smarting of his burnt palm against the chalice’s curvaceous stem. Impatient with himself, he calls up images of the Saviour’s spilled blood—the stitchwork forehead, the hammered holes, the wound in His naked side. It works, if only for a moment. Behind him, Mathilda’s impassioned recitation of the Our Father rises head and shoulders above the rest. He takes a breath and soldiers on, praying earnestly for protection.
    His long fingers snap the host in two, place a half on the paten and crumble a corner off its twin to dissolve in the wine—as the faithful are absorbed into the Church, he was taught, as they doff their individual skins, becoming one in the bloodstream of Christ.
    “Agnus Dei—”
He solemnly addresses the Lamb, begging for mercy, begging for peace. After the prayers before Holy Communion, he inclines toward the altar and strikes his breast, wincing.
“Domine, non sum dignus—”
He repeats the profession of humility three times, thinking miserably, I’m not worthy, it’s true.
    Since his first Communion, August has savoured the host, looking forward eagerly to ingesting the corporeal fact of the Lord. The doctrine of transubstantiation posed no problem, no mystery even—he could taste Christ’s presence in that fine wafer, his palate discerning the very purest of flesh.
    Now, nearly weightless, the Blessed Sacrament falls like an imaginary blow on the budding surface of his tongue.
Insubstantial
. No ripeness, no resilience, no reward. He clasps his hands carefully, but instead of praying, he wills his throat to close, his saliva to run dry. It’s no use. Despite all his best efforts, the host melts and slips softly away.
    Shaken, he mumbles insensibly, uncovers the chalice and sweeps the powdery crumbs from the paten into the sacred cup. His hand stings terribly. He drinks shallowly from the Precious Blood, raising the spotless cloth to wipe any trace of his lips from the rim.
    At long last he removes the ciborium from the tabernacle and lifts its arched lid, exposing the hosts for the Communion of the faithful. The moment of veneration is fleeting.
Ciborium
, he thinks, from the Greek for “the seed cup of a flower.” Reaching inside, his scalded fingers begin to throb.

8
PRAECINGE ME, DOMINE
(
gird me, o lord
)
    R at Creek ran deep the year August turned thirteen, rising up in its gully to form more of a river than Fairview had ever known. Just where the muddy turn of it came snaking into town, the water pooled to meet a flat outcropping of rock. Normally good for nothing, the rock made a natural pier, a black magnet for teenage boys.
    August could hear them from where he sat sinking into the old horsehair loveseat his mother had finally relinquished to the porch. Their sound splashed up out of the coulee and washed toward him across the side field—the laughter boyish, cresting at times into a squeal or an abandoned yelp, then shifting to something deeper, a bellowed threat, the tried-on shout of a man. August listened to them day after day, poring over the latest book he’d borrowed from the church office, all the time telling himself he couldn’t possibly care less.
    Then one day—a day so hot he felt the bare soles of his feet would ignite—he stood and pivoted toward their swimming sound. He knew what awaited him. As far back as he could remember, he’d been resolving to give up trying to fit in.
    There were six of them, all around August’s age. He watched them from behind the old willow that had its roots spread out crazily down the bank. They were jumping in one after the