Free The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse by Louise Erdrich Page A

quicksand of the bureaucratic process. I want to walk on hidden trails of solid ground! I have lived, I believe”—here Father Damien raised a finger to his lips, inhaled absently from the now dead cigarette—“a quiet life. I have sought no following, engaged in no behaviors, holy or otherwise, that would bring me notoriety. I have done only as I was directed by Jesus, with whom I have a personal understanding. In no way have I attempted to invoke or incite spiritual response from others based solely on features of my own personality. I have tried, in other words, to serve God invisibly.”
    Father Jude Miller held his peace with an air of vacant gravity. He believed he knew where the old priest was heading, and he did agree: the nun in question’s life had been a contrast. No retiring servant was she, Leopolda, but a fiercely masterful woman whose resounding bitterness of spirit had nonetheless resulted in acts of troubling goodness, inspirations, even miraculous involvements. Which raised the question: Were saints only saints by virtue of their influence, their following, their reputation for the marvelous, or was there room for personal failure—especially when, as evidenced by the miracles and eighteen letters so far, the results of that difficult life were so dramatically good?
    “I have here,” said Father Jude, “a copy of a crudely written letter that I will read to you in order to inform you more thoroughly on the important uncertainties we face in regard to Leopolda.”
    “By all means.”
    “ ‘Dear Bishop,’ ” read Father Jude, “ ‘I run my farming operation just west of town nearby which the place is where the nun Leopolda was hit by lightning and her ashes blown into the convent beehives produced in one $2.99 jar (large) of honey I bought from there concern the following cure of livelong piles. . . .’ ”
    Father Damien remained impassive as Jude finished out the missive.
    “And this one,” Father Jude went on, choosing from a file folder he had with him. “ ‘I am a strict atheist engaged in the practice of medicine. My specialty is cardiac surgery. My private practice, based in Fargo, North Dakota, encompasses unusual cases from the surrounding region. In February of this year I saw a young girl who suffered a severe case of an unusual virus that destroyed the membrane surrounding the heart and had begun to attack the muscle itself . . .’ ”
    “That last,” said Father Damien, lips pressed in a worried line, “fully documented?”
    “Complete.”
    “Ah then . . .” Father Damien shook his head. Consternation soured his features. “What to make of it. Medical cures!”
    “Well, the one, the first . . .” Father Jude shook his head, raised his brows.
    “I would never make light of piles,” said Father Damien, “but is there incontrovertible proof that this man suffered from hemorrhoids through the course of his life and then was cured by the honey sold by the bee-keeping nuns? The proof is marginal, at best.
    “And this ash and bee connection, what of that?” Father Damien went on. “Can you shed some light on that?”
    “What light I can.” Father Jude took a long sip of water. “According to the most lucid witness—the person who saw Leopolda in the hour before her death—Leopolda was left in the garden to pray, and of course, as we regret, struck by a bolt of lightning. Next morning, we remarked on the mysterious cross made of ash that was found in the place she’d been left—of course no one knew she was missing yet. The ash blew into the flowers. The flowers, visited by bees, were the source of the wonder-working honey, and then of course . . . the witness—”
    “Who was this witness?”
    “Sister Adelphine. She cared for most of Leopolda’s earthly needs. The night she died, Adelphine left her sitting piously in her ground-floor cell, which opened into the garden. The old nun often ventured outside, to contemplate the image of Christ