Idea in Stone | Page 4

about this.
"Can I help you?"
Stefan turned to see a man in clerical robes of shiny black material with
a high, straight collar. The man smiled, warm and friendly, without the
spinning hypnotic whirls in his eyes Stefan half-expected to see.
"Uh," said Stefan, embarrassed to say it, even though these people
claimed this was their stock and trade, "I'd like to get in touch with my
father."
"I'm going to make two assumptions," said the clergyman. "You've
never been here before, and your father is dead."
"Two for two," said Stefan, relaxing a little.
"Not a problem," said the man. "I'm Brother James. Welcome to the
Toronto chapter of the Matholic church. Let me show you around." He
showed Stefan the old features of the church and the parts that they'd
renovated. Finally, he led Stefan to a bank of confessionals. "You don't
need to believe in our doctrine or anything in particular for this to work.
It's been proven time and again. But you'll see for yourself. Here," he
said, indicating the curtained entrance of a confessional.
Stefan sat in the dim light. The cleric slid open the small window, but
Stefan couldn't see him through the mesh. "The trick with the Eter-net
is that the dead use a different logic from us sometimes, and the way
they communicate, well, it's subtle. It's easy to miss, which is why there
are so many doubters. But it is very powerful. So you should be
absolutely sure you want to do this before we begin."

Stefan paused. He wasn't sure if he believed in any of this, so it seemed
pretty harmless. And if it did work at all...
"No, I want to do this," he said.
"Alright," said the cleric's soft voice, "let's begin. You'll see a piece of
paper in front of you, and a pen just to the right of it." An angled
light-box, like a photographer's, illuminated in front of him. On it was a
single sheet of paper with a pearlescent tone and tiny, hair-like
filaments running through it. Stefan looked to the side and found a
squat blue fountain pen. He uncapped it with an audible click. "Good,"
said the cleric, "now write to the person you want to reach. If you make
any requests, try to use simple sentences, as much for yourself as for
the recipient."
"Uh, alright," said Stefan. The very idea was preposterous, yet he put
his pen to the sheet and wrote the words "Dear Dad". He paused there,
a stream of memories flying through his mind -- his parents playing on
a campground stage while he toddled through the crowd; his father and
a slightly taller him in a picture, behind them a black Lake Superior and
a blazing pink and red sunset sky; his father giving him his first drink --
a hot rum toddy at a ski lodge where they performed some Christmases;
his father pulling the car over because he and Stefan were crying with
laughter at something on the radio; his father, his father, his father.
For the next half hour he wrote, his handwriting getting smaller and
smaller as he went so he could say as much as possible in the space of
the page. He wrote all the things he'd never spoken before, and
described as best he could everything that had happened since he was
nine and his father made that fateful step off the stage, falling into the
percussion section of the orchestra pit, impaled on a high-hat. People
said his father was a drunk, but he refused to believe it. With barely
enough room for another line, he realised he hadn't actually asked his
father for anything. Maybe there was no need. But that was the point of
this exercise, so he wrote two words in the tiny space left in the corner
of the page: "Save me."
He'd completely forgotten about the cleric. "Hello?"

"Hello," said a contented voice from the other side of the divider, "are
you finished?"
"Yeah."
The curtain whipped open with a clatter and Stefan squinted at the
daylight. The cleric stood there, smiling, while Stefan clutched his
piece of paper. "Come with me," he said. He led Stefan to a vestibule
near the front of the church and gestured to something like a cross
between a Roman pedestal and a photocopier. Its top was open, and the
man gestured for Stefan to put his paper down on it. The cleric was
about to close the top, but stopped. "Oh," he said, "there's just the
matter of payment."
"Right," said Stefan, "how much is it?"
"One hundred and fifty dollars. That includes tax."
Stefan blanched, but he had to go through with this, and not just to save
face. "Do you take credit cards?"
"We