"Are you, my children?" the young priest spoke from his lectern, the enthusiasm of conviction gleaming through his features. "Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? For only by placing ourselves at His mercy can we hope for salvation. Amen."

Nineteen eighty-four was shaping up to be a good year, father Renato Becerra reflected as he returned to the Presider's Chair for a moment of silence. He'd been ordained as a priest twelve months prior, and to have his own church, his own congregation at the age of twenty-six was beyond the scope of his expectations. Didn't matter that the parish itself was about as south as south could get, practically sinking into the bayou half the year when the rains fell, or that the majority of the people that frequented St. Basilio's were over the age of fifty—those were small details when one had decided to dedicate one's life to serving the Almighty Lord of the Universe. Why, even old swamp people needed saving! or so Father Becerra would chuckle to himself on nights when the heat or the mosquitos got him down.

His own youth seemed a distant memory, something more like a fading dream, at this point, his present life being so different from the past. He'd grown up in Europe, carried out his learning with private tutors, taken lessons in old hobbies like fencing and horseback riding. His aging, loving, old-monied parents had been proud to have a son enter the seminary in order to discern his vocation, though neither had lived long enough to see him come out the other end of it. Renato knew, though, that they were proud of him from above, that they offered their blessings from Heaven, and so long as he labored for justice and truth on Earth, he'd eventually be with them again, celebrating the choices he'd made with his life.

How he'd ended up in Surette, Louisiana was something of a mystery, even to him. There'd been the trip overseas, the result of an adventurous spirit, and then the mission—he'd been part of a mission bent on working in the Americas. Whether he'd made decisions or someone else had, though, the end result had been his own isolation in this small town, a place that in many ways seemed to run more backward than forward.

Well, no matter. Here he was, now, and overall, he was happy. Surette had welcomed him. Much of the community was Catholic (or lapsed Catholic). There was the Baptist church, and there was a non-denomenational something-or-other, but otherwise, the largest percentage of churchgoers attended St. Basilio's. It was Father Becerra's task to reinvigorate the locals, attempt to bring in more families, those with children, young couples, that sort of thing, and perhaps that'd been the biggest reason he'd been selected for this particular role. Youthful energy and confidence were key traits for such a job; Renato Becerra had both in spades.

After Mass that Sunday morning in early April, as he stood standing outside the church greeting each parishioner as they left, shaking hands or offering hugs, sharing in whatever news the people wanted to offer, reminding them that there was coffee and conversation available in the rectory for any interested parties, the man felt his smile begin to stale. This happened every Sunday—his heart would be in his chats and his expressions, but his body would tire. Saying so many Masses took strength, especially without the help of a Deacon. Why, he'd been lucky to finally squeeze a couple of altar servers out of one of the few regular families, and they were as of yet ill-trained and not particularly well-mannered. What Renato really wanted after each Mass was to isolate, to have a nice cup of tea while he did some spiritual reading and, afterward, take a nap. But there were always those few people who needed him to stick around afterward for confessions. Or, really, those few who stuck around under the pretense of confessing sins when really what they wanted was something more like a little therapy or an uplifting conversation. They sought to monopolize his time. Renato knew he should insist these people stick to the times he'd posted for the sacrameent—a half hour before each Sunday Mass and between six and eight on Wednesday evenings! But he hadn't the heart to deny them what they believed their souls needed.

And so, after the last of the Mass-goers had exited and passed him by, gone for their coffees and cars, Renato stiffened his grin a bit more, reassured the three predictably waiting for him that he'd be ready in a moment, and turned back into the church. At least he could relax his jaw behind the screen of the confessional.

In spite of its quaggy location and aging attendees, St. Basilio's was a rather lovely little church. It was well over a hundred years old, the current structure having been built up and around the original founders' church during the Gothic revival, hence its somewhat hodgepodge style. A rectangular white wooden belltower adorned the very front and center of the building, the main entrance hewn right into its base, and from there, on either side, extended the body of the actual church. Both the interior walls as well as the floors revealed the original cypress planks in some places, though much had been plastered or carpeted in the name of preservation. Arched windows lined the walls though they were narrower and at less frequent intervals than those in more modern churches, and their panes consisted of simple patchworks of greens, indigos, and clear glass, which when the sun shone poured sparkling cascades of watery light but otherwise, at dawn or dusk or in rainy weather, made bulbs and shoals of candlelight necessary. The wall directly behind the altar was painted with silvery vines that looked something like glimmering snakes twisting up toward the heavens or down toward Hell, and on the altar itself at either side of the sanctuary were two pieces of peculiarity: twice-life-sized lambs, each shaped from the smoothest white marble, carved from single slabs. The statues were on the floor, as they were far too weighty to be located on the altar itself, and their heads tilted upward as if in veneration.

The curl of the lambs' coats, the serenity of their empty eyes and gently smiling muzzles, the grass-etched base on which the legs of each were bent as if kneeling in prayer gave homage to the talented artisan who had carved them, and yet Father Becerra had no knowledge of their maker. The lambs had been in the church since he'd arrived, and the previous presiders had left no information as to their sculptor. In any case, they seemed in themselves to create the church, in spite of the somewhat simple artistry exemplified in the structure and its décor. Renato had spent many a late-night hour praying in the nave, locking his eyes on those statues' quiescent expressions, finding comfort in their solidity and serenity. All might be possible, if only those lambs—God's most potent symbol of innocence, sacrifice, and redemption—carried on.

The man heaved a sigh as he entered the confessional, breathed in the warm, close air as the thick velvet curtain draped behind him and he sat upon his wooden bench. Leaning against the cool wall, Father Becerra rattled through some prayers, asked God to give him the grace and humility necessary to perform the sacrament, and waited for his faithful few to wander in and divulge their concerns.

A rustle on the other side of the latticed screen told him his first penitent had arrived. Deborah, surely—she was always first. Why, he'd seen the seventy-seven-year-old hustle her way past those half her age to get to the front of the line. Renato steeled himself for her minutely detailed list of every infraction she'd committed since Wednesday evening (she always seemed to come up with a surprising amount of material) but was mildly perplexed when the voice from beyond the partition was one he didn't quite recognize.

"Bless me Father, for I am going to sin," the confessor began.

Surely Renato had misunderstood. He'd been thrown by the unfamiliarity of his penitent. Ignoring the traditional greeting (or what he thought he'd heard of it), Father Becerra nodded, looked at his hands folded in his lap, and recalibrated. A brief silence fell, and the priest encouraged, "And when was your last confession?"

The air resettled, and then the voice, which was difficult to gender although Father Becerra supposed it sounded more feminine than not, replied quietly, "I can't remember."

This was interesting. More interesting than his regulars, thought Renato. He knew he wasn't supposed to consider confession interesting, per se, and yet what priest wouldn't want to help a soul in need? Clearly this was someone long unshriven. Deborah and the others, as much as they rattled off litanies of their venial sins, had no need to worry—their souls were scrubbed raw as meat. How nice to have the chance to absolve someone new!

"It's all right." Renato pursed his lips, closed his eyes, mentally and spiritually prepared himself to hear something real. "We all lapse." Inwardly, he kicked himself for those words the moment they left his mouth. Why scold this person who'd finally decided to seek God? Still, he had to carry on. "What are your sins, then?"

"Oh, so many, Father."

Renato waited for enumeration but none came. "You need not be afraid to confess. What ails you most?"

Wavering in its tone, growing slightly more masculine so that Father Becerra considered maybe he'd been incorrect, that it was a man on the other side of the screen, the penitent responded, "What's done is done, Father. It's what I aim to do."

Troubling. But Father Becerra remained silent, allowed for the purging nature of the confessional to do its work.

"I've tried, Father—I've done what I was supposed to. I prayed. Isn't that what I should do?" the confessor asked but left no time for answer. "Do you know how long I've felt this stirring inside of me? Corrosive, unwelcome—for most of my life. Most of it. I prayed to God to make me good, Father. I did. I begged him for it. Take away the evil within me! I told Him. I don't want it there! I want to be good! I told Him. I don't want this desire inside of me!" Passion had begun to rise in the confessor's voice, which had lifted in pitch yet remained hollow in some way, and as the person beyond the screen continued, a certain lightheadedness consumed Father Becerra. He started to wish he'd eaten more breakfast now that the emptiness of his stomach was so prominent. "I didn't ask for it, you understand? I didn't ask for it," the confessor carried on. "And prayer is supposed to help, isn't it? But all that it's done is deepen my needs, Father. I can't hold it back any longer, do you hear me? And soon, I know, I will act on it. I've tried—you can't doubt it! But what can I do, now? I have nothing else."

Renato pulled himself together. "My son, my son!" he nearly cried, nowhere certain he spoke to a man and knowing he was likely quite younger than whomever was on the other side of that partition but knowing, too, that the priestly authority he wielded required of him to be a spiritual father in command as much as in name.

The confessor quieted, and gratified, Father breathed in deeply before proceeding.

"You speak of troubles within you. We all struggle with desire. It is the human in us, the tendency toward sin. You are no different than your fellows. But I hear in you the fear that your desires will lead you to action, and this concerns me."

"It concerns me, too, Father."

"And you say you've prayed to God, asked His help?"

"Yes."

"How often do you pray? How deep is your faith?" A stupid question, Renato felt, and yet he was stumbling a bit. He could wreathe words into sparkling tales all day—it was what he did for his homilies, wasn't it? And he could mutter the incantations and platitudes nearly all Catholics would expect, even be pleased to hear. But the intensity, the severity of this tempest that'd blown into his morning was beyond the scope of his preparations.

In a tone so low the words vibrated the chords of the very air, the voice asked, "You question my faith, Father?"

For a moment, just a moment, the notion that something sinister sat on the other side of that latticed partition flickered through Renato's thoughts, and without lifting his head, he rolled his eyes sideways, tried to glimpse whoever might be speaking.

Only shadow, though, was visible beyond the screen.

"I don't question your faith," the priest replied, failing to squelch the tremor in his words. "I only mean to assure you that God will not abandon us to the Devil. We must remain fervent in our prayers, whether we believe them to be answered or not."

A heavy sigh emanated from the other side, something of a growl beneath it. "I know, now, that God does not abandon us."

"I am glad you understand that—"

"We can't be abandoned by something that was never beside us to begin with."

The words registered, sank in, and the priest's heart sank. "No, no—"

"It's all right, Father. You can't help me. I don't know why I came."

"I can help you; I will. If you'll only tell me what it is that's weighing so heavily on your soul. Confess, and I will absolve you of whatever evil desires you claim to harbor. We can speak, too, of help so that you can move forward, of finding someone to work with you in order to—"

"The children."

The confessor had said it so matter-of-factly, so without emotion, that the admittance dropped the temperature in the velvet-enclosed cocoon in which the two spoke.

"It's the children!" This second time, a quiver—sorrow? fear?—rippled through the words.

Father Becerra swallowed. "Wh-what of children, my s-son?" God forbid he were dealing with a deviant, a pervert—oh! Renato's mind began to shift toward which superior he could call for help after this was over, if only he could get this person's name . . .

"You know, Father." And now the penitent's tone dropped, the former passion having run dry, something of resignation in the dull, deep, genderless voice. "They bear the burden of sins so heavy, too heavy!"

A madman, surely! This was a mentally and spiritually unwell person. The realizaton relieved Renato, momentarily. Better a lunatic than a pervert, although one could definitely be both. "No, no. There is no evil in children. Children are God's lambs, innocence itself. You must—"

"They are not lambs."

"—care for them—"

"They are not innocent."

"—as the shepherd cares for his flock—"

"No!"

A forceful blow shook the entire confessional as the stranger presumably struck his fist against some part of the wooden wall between himself and the priest. Father Becerra ceased speaking, entirely at a loss and now beginning to fear for his safety. It was everything he could do not to get up and run from his seat.

Mouth pressed against the lattice, the lips of the confessor snarled with terrifying gravity, "I will take them. I will have them all. And I will carve their bodies hollow to purify what those before them tainted. I will let their blood run rivers through my fingers and laugh as it stains the waters red, for I will be a new Moses turning the Nile. You will know my plagues, Father—all will know. For I am despised and rejected by mankind, a creature of suffering, and familiar with pain . . . yet you consider me punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted . . . He turns us away, and He leaves us alone with them, and they, like sheep, have gone astray. And I thank you for clearing my conscience of it, for confirming there's nothing I can do to stop what's coming. Blood soaks Surette, Father, and the time for vengeance is come again."

Before Renato could attempt another word, the penitent left the confessional in a rush of moist air and thick swooshing fabric.

Even had Father Becerra been able to move his weakened limbs, he wouldn't have tried to peek from the velvet folds; his terror was too great. Instead, as a nauseous stench of foul mire and stagnant water overwhelmed him, he turned aside and vomited onto the tiled floor.