Salem's Lot - Stephen King [64]
HUBERT BARCLAY MARSTEN
October 6, 1889
August 12, 1939
The angel of Death who holdeth
The bronze Lamp beyond the golden door
Hath taken thee into dark Waters
And below that, almost obliterated by thirty-six seasons of freeze and thaw:
God Grant He Lie Still
Still vaguely troubled and still not knowing why, Mike Ryerson went back into the woods to sit by the brook and eat his lunch.
3
In the early days at the seminary, a friend of Father Callahan’s had given him a blasphemous crewelwork sampler which had sent him into gales of horrified laughter at the time, but which seemed more true and less blasphemous as the years passed: God grant me the SERENITY to accept what I cannot change, the TENACITY to change what I may, and the GOOD LUCK not to fuck up too often. This in Old English script with a rising sun in the background.
Now, standing before Danny Glick’s mourners, that old credo recurred.
The pallbearers, two uncles and two cousins of the dead boy, had lowered the coffin into the ground. Marjorie Glick, dressed in a black coat and a veiled black hat, her face showing through the mesh in the netting like cottage cheese, stood swaying in the protective curve of her father’s arm, clutching a black purse as though it were a life preserver. Tony Glick stood apart from her, his face shocked and wandering. Several times during the church service he had looked around, as if to verify his presence among these people. His face was that of a man who believes he is dreaming.
The church can’t stop this dream, Callahan thought. Nor all the serenity, tenacity, or good luck in the world. The fuck-up has already happened.
He sprinkled holy water on the coffin and the grave, sanctifying them for all time.
‘Let us pray,’ he said. The words rolled melodiously from his throat as they always had, in shine and shadow, drunk or sober. The mourners bowed their heads.
‘Lord God, through your mercy those who have lived in faith find eternal peace. Bless this grave and send your angel to watch over it. As we bury the body of Daniel Glick, welcome him into your presence, and with your saints let him rejoice in you forever. We ask it through Christ our Lord. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ the congregation muttered, and the wind swept it away in rags. Tony Glick was looking around with wide, haunted eyes. His wife was pressing a Kleenex to her mouth.
‘With faith in Jesus Christ, we reverently bring the body of this child to be buried in its human imperfection. Let us pray with confidence to God, who gives life to all things, that he will raise up this mortal body to the perfection and company of saints.’
He turned the pages of his missal. A woman in the third row of the loose horseshoe grouped around the grave had begun to sob hoarsely. A bird chirruped somewhere back in the woods.
‘Let us pray for our brother Daniel Glick to our Lord Jesus Christ,’ Father Callahan said, ‘who told us: "I am the resurrection and the life. The man who believes in me will live even though he dies, and every living person who puts his faith in me will never suffer eternal death." Lord, you wept at the death of Lazarus, your friend: comfort us in our sorrow. We ask this in faith.’
‘Lord, hear our prayer,’ the Catholics answered.
‘You raised the dead to life; give our brother Daniel eternal life. We ask this in faith.’
‘Lord, hear our prayer,’ they answered. Something seemed to be dawning in Tony Glick’s eyes; a revelation, perhaps.
‘Our brother Daniel was washed clean in baptism; give him fellowship with all your saints. We ask this in faith.’ ‘Lord, hear our prayer.’
‘He was nourished with your body and blood; grant him a place at the table in your heavenly kingdom. We ask this in faith.’
‘Lord, hear our prayer.’
Marjorie Glick had begun to rock back and forth, moaning. I
‘Comfort us in our sorrow at the death of our brother; let our faith be our consolation and eternal life our hope. We ask this in faith.’
‘Lord, hear our prayer.’
He closed his missal. ‘Let