DO YOU KNOW ST. ANTHONY OF THE DESERT?

by Hunter Rapp

Father Amos knew him well. He spoke to him on the long roads and quiet trails, across trampled dust and through settling dusk. In Amos’s imagination, the deserts that ancient monk made his home were not dissimilar from his own Texas plains, and praying familiar words aloud offered some measure of comfort on those haunted stretches.

It was a well-worn recitation: O Holy St. Anthony, gentlest of saints...

Upon this night, however, Father Amos led his horse into a dry wilderness, and that plea for intercession carried newfound weight.

The priest found his mind drifting back to the stories that had fascinated him as a younger man: how St. Anthony had forsworn earthly luxuries and given his wealth to the poor; how he had devoted himself to the ascetic life, subsisting on mere bread and salt; how he had dueled with demons in Egypt and overcome them through fervent prayer. While in seminary, Amos had wondered if he might one day accomplish anything comparable—even finding some excitement in the possibility that he would encounter some infernal spirit to vanquish for himself.

How vain that wish seemed now.

Your love for God and charity for His creatures made you worthy, when on earth, to possess miraculous powers.

Father Amos prayed with his eyes open, careful to follow the coyote prints that guided his path—though they were becoming harder to make out as he went. The sun had begun to reclaim the light it bestowed at dawn; had his destination been a stop on his ordinary circuit, Amos would have long past paused his journey. He did not know how far he might have to ride this evening though, and he feared what might settle upon him should he stop to rest.

Amos shook his head. Encouraged by this thought, I implore you to obtain for me…

What to ask for? At this point, what was left?

“Obtain for me deliverance from death this night,” he said finally, with a trembling voice and nought but his horse to hear it.

Knowing the reddening sun would soon sink behind far-off hills, Father Amos urged his steed to a faster pace, resolved to follow the coyote’s prints as far as they took him. But as he rode on, he considered whether deliverance and death weren’t, in this case, the same thing.

***

Father Amos had not expected to spend most of his priesthood on horseback. Yet it was to the untamed American west that the Church had called him to minister, and those sparse territories required such a mobile presbyterate.

He shepherded more than a half-dozen parishes, and the roads between each town were lengthy and lonely. Some communities in his makeshift diocese had enough people to be called cities and others had hardly enough to count as towns in the first place, and Catholics made up a mere fraction of those populations. Still, as long as souls thirsted for living water, Father Amos would be there.

Goldstead was a larger community on his circuit, and one of which Amos was especially fond. When he rode into town, Sunday mass was a celebration: families from the city and surrounding homesteads would gather at the courthouse, all arrayed in their best dress, to hear his homily and partake in the sacrament together. Afterwards, there would be lunch, blessings, confessions, and perhaps a wedding to boot. Father Amos would spend the afternoon in good company. The barber and his wife, a pair of Irish immigrants twenty years his senior, always let him stay at their house. The nights he spent there would last long over cards and conversation.

“You know, I didn’t reckon a priest could even play poker,” the barber said one evening, while he dealt out the deck, “what with lying being a sin and all.”

His wife smacked his shoulder. “Rowan, that’s not respectful.”

The priest laughed. “I think the Good Lord can appreciate a game between friends.”

The old man raised his eyebrow at this. “Well tell me, Father, what’s He think of some whiskey to accompany said game between friends?”

“All things are good,” Father Amos said, before adding, with a smile, “in moderation.”

The barber’s wife laughed and went to fetch a bottle. And when the lamps were finally extinguished and the couple retired to their bedroom, the priest went to bed with a warm belly and a full heart. Such was the rhythm of every visit to Goldstead.

The joys of the day, however, lingered faintly. As Amos lay in his cot, his thoughts would turn inexorably to the long road that awaited him the next morning. And in the restless space between waking and sleeping, he would dream of the things that would meet him along the way.

They were dark creatures, clawing things, phantoms that whispered and rattled and shrieked—ghastly long faces with slit noses and winged silhouettes. They wore a hundred skins and mocked in a hundred voices, and the priest knew not whether he conjured them or they had crawled out of some chasm to enter his unguarded mind. One shape was particular to him, haunting him every night with panting breaths and hellfire eyes. It spoke to a naked and unraveled Amos saying, You will meet me in the desert.

The priest would pray for liberation, for exorcism even, but the words he uttered to the Almighty were like stones thrown into the dark. The Holy Ghost offered no sense of peace greater than that offered by his exhausted body when it finally compelled him to sleep.

He would get up in the morning, bid his hosts goodbye, and continue his circuit, hoping to find solace in the next town.

***

Soon enough, the night was lit by a waxing moon and scored with howls. His steed whinnied concern, and Amos rubbed the horse’s neck, assuring her that he liked the night no more than she did. The darkness darkened his thoughts, and he was grateful to have another creature for company.

“O Holy St. Anthony, gentlest of saints…” he murmured.

The barber had bid him go first thing that morning. Amos had listened because he felt he had no other options. He rode out of Goldstead at first uncertain of his direction, but in time noticed prints in the ground which he knew would guide his way. The priest still did not know what he would do if he located the creature from his dreams. It might save him or it might kill him, and the two fates seemed dreadfully interlocked.

He shuddered when he thought about how close he had been...

All of a sudden, his horse reared on her hind legs, braying something terrible. Amos only had one hand on the reins and tried to grab ahold of the other, but couldn’t find it in the dark. The horse leapt and kicked like mad, and Amos tumbled off, freeing his wrist before he would be dragged. He fell to the dust as the creature galloped off.

Heart beating at a panicked pace, Amos tried to stand. When he crawled to his knees he found a coyote sitting directly in front of him, eyes shining in the moonlight.

***

The barber had discovered him on his cot, a pathetic thing holding his pistol and breathing heavy. The old man had only come downstairs for a drink; had he chosen to go back to sleep, it likely would have been a gunshot instead of thirst that got him out of bed.

“Father Amos,” the barber said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “This is no way to go.”

Amos shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rowan. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Nor this anything to do with you.” Gently, he removed the pistol from the priest’s hands. The younger man chose not to fight him.

“I think it’s the Devil in me,” Amos said. “I’m tormented.”

“You know as well as I do that Satan can’t be thwarted with mortal weapons.”

Amos said nothing. Until now, he had given his parishioners no indication of the specters he faced. How could he explain the quiet desperation he felt on the trails between towns? How was he to describe that his loneliness was not just loneliness? He could not take anyone to places his mind went as he tried to sleep, and that burden was not something he wished on any soul. The barber must surely be at a loss to see his priest in such a state.

Whatever his appraisal was, the old man spoke thus:

“I heard tale once of a man who sought to live a life in service to the Lord. When his ministry began, he went into the desert by himself—to fast and pray and such. Satan came to him there, and he threw all sorts of accusations and assaults his way. Ambushed his mind while he was all by his lonesome. But this man, he threw holy words right back at him, and beat the old bastard back into the dirt.”

Then the barber chuckled: “Forgive me for being tongue-in-cheek, Father. You know the man I’m talking about.”

“Yes,” said Amos, staring off into the distance. “I read The Life of St. Anthony in seminary.”

The barber looked surprised. “Well, I don’t know who the hell that is. I was talking about Jesus. I just think that maybe you ought to try the same thing.”

***

“Are you the Devil?” Amos asked.

The coyote stared back at him.

“You bit my horse’s ankle and now I’ve lost her. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I don’t carry a gun, and even if I did, I doubt shooting you would change anything. Maybe you’re not the Devil at all, just some desert fiend that likes to joke. I’ve heard the Navajo talk about you; they call you Trickster. Are you Coyote from the stories? Or maybe, worse than that, you’re just an animal, and I’m here ranting to you like a madman.”

He stood up, but the coyote didn’t move. So Amos sat down again, cross-legged, and spoke quietly. “I am a man of God. I came here to overcome the Devil. I need some release from my mind. Please.”

And then the coyote spoke. I cannot release you.

Somehow, hearing speech from the lupine body did not shock the priest.

You are a sorrowful creature, it said. What grieves you?

“Nothing.”

Who has broken your heart?

“No one.”

Then why do you cry without tears, Man-of-God?

Amos replied, “I don’t know,” and his voice broke as he said it.

The coyote stood up and circled the sad man, sniffing him. I am a creature who exists between Spirit and Animal. These natures dance within me. You are of these same natures, yet within you they are at war. I cannot fully understand this myself. You have pains and joys I cannot possess. You know your God and your Devil differently than I know them.

The coyote stopped in front of Amos, and Amos stared back into its glowing eyes.

If there is a cure for your ailment, you will not find it in the desert. My joy is mischief. Your joy is in your cubs. You lead many packs, and love them well. Remember they love you too. But do not seek to be Spirit and forget you are Animal.

The coyote began to walk away, before turning its head back.

You have ridden a long way into this dry country, human. Are you thirsty?

Amos opened his mouth to respond and realized just how parched he had become during his journey. His “Yes” caught in his throat.

The coyote walked away without saying anything else.

As the trickster’s shape faded into the night, the sound of a thunderstorm crackled overhead, and the dark sky began to pour.

Father Amos looked up into the rain. After a few moments, he laughed.