Father Tyler Coleridge Part 2 - King's County - 1857

It had taken Tyler Coleridge less than a month to make his home in King's County.

He had found his journey easy as he traveled along the country roads and slept in the comfort of the Church in which he once believed.  While he was still technically employed, his parish had burned in a tragic fire... one that claimed Pastor Turnbull who had been trying to set the horses free.  The poor soul was very concerned for all life, and ran into the flames to save the horses only to be suffocated by the fire.  Coleridge had been too busy trying to put out the fire to the rectory to aid Turnbull.  At least, that's the story Coleridge sold along the way to New York City.

When he arrived at the ferry, late in the evening on that October night, he found himself alone, at the crossing of the Gravesend Bay from New Jersey's South Beach.  He gained passage and they moved through the water.  Between shores, the fog covered his view of the land.  Coleridge sat on the bench of the ferryboat, and looked out into the fog.

"What brings you to King's County?" asked the ferryman.  His voice was hard and grizzled.  It sounded as if the man had a cold, or had recently experienced a heavy cough.

"The work of my Holy Father, of course," said Coleridge with a smile.  The ferryman laughed.

"The Church sent you?"

"I would not say the Church - I would say it was a calling from beyond.  A higher power."

Tyler Coleridge

"God, Himself, then?" chuckled the man.  Coleridge nodded.  "It's about time we had a faithful man here.  The Bishop - Cranston is his name - is as corrupt as they come."

"Is that so?"  Coleridge's interest was piqued.  Maybe this is a messenger from my father... "Tell me more of him.  Perhaps my calling will aid this county in cleansing the corruption from the Holy Church."

"He takes our tithe and fills his coffers.  He offers nothing back.  He feeds no hungry, he gives no solace to the beggar.  He listens only to the wealthy.  It's as if us poor, simple folk don't exist. We pay our tithe just like the rich men on top of the hill - but we're ignored down here by the bay.  It's a shame it is.  The priests all follow his lead, too."  The ferryman spit off the side of the boat.

"Where is his parish?"

"Between Atlantic and Washington Ave - north of the bay by a half hour's ride.  It's St. Joseph's on Pacific.  You can't miss it."   Coleridge chuckled at the name.  Surely, the name was the sign - the purpose - for which he was looking.  He thanked the ferryman, and got off the small boat, paying the man with the small amount of funds he had left from what he took from his Pennsylvania parish.  He hadn't taken much - just enough to buy him passage and a night's stay in a hotel or hostel if needed.

It took him three hours to travel from the ferry landing to the church by foot, but the ferryman was right - Coleridge could hardly miss it.  It was a tall and ornate building with two squared spires reaching into the air on either side of the main entrance.  There was a tall stained glass window above the double door entrance, and a cross atop the angled roof.  Coleridge saw bells in each of the spires.  While it was well into the night, the lights of the church were on inside.

Coleridge decided to go around the back, and walked to the side entrance of the long building.  He saw arched windows along each side peering in to the candlelit sanctuary within.  The church was indeed decadent.  He found the side door and knocked softly at first.  When he was not answered, he knocked slightly harder.

The door creaked open after another minute of waiting, and he saw a young acolyte, black robes under his white top, hold up a lantern to see Coleridge's face.  The acolyte blinked a few times before focusing on the white collar Coleridge wore around his neck.  The boy stepped aside quickly.

"Greetings, Father," said the boy, his voice cracking.

"Hello, my son," said Coleridge as he walked inside.  He looked upon the vaulted ceilings and the archways lining the central pews.  The sanctuary was pristine and lit by decorative candelabras.  The Tabernacle was gilded and set upon fashioned marble and velvet.  The altar was sculpted from marble as well, and stone angels held its surface aloft.  Coleridge was stunned by the beauty.

"Are you here to see Bishop Cranston?" asked the boy.

"Indeed I am - I have been assigned to this parish by the higher power."  Coleridge looked at the boy with a smile.  The boy walked away quickly, and behind the area of the altar to the rear chambers.  Coleridge took a seat in the front pew, and looked upon the glory of the church before him.  It was, indeed, quite the marvel for Coleridge to behold.  He had never seen a church so magnificent.

Bishop Cranston walked out from his chambers and towards Coleridge with a smile on his clean-shaven face.  Cranston's jowls stretched around the sides of his mouth and his thick eyebrows showed a stern and resolute facade.  The Bishop's hair was grey and slicked back.

Coleridge brushed his own hair, bare at the top but thick on the sides, against his scalp.  He smiled towards Cranston, feeling the gap between his front teeth with his tongue.  Coleridge knew his smiling round face was often a very disarming countenance.  He had not shaved, himself, since Pennsylvania, and so had grown a beard.

"It's good to meet a fellow man of the cloth," said Cranston, extending his hand in greeting.  Coleridge shook it after rising from the pew.

"Likewise, Bishop."

"So, you were sent to King's County?"  Cranston gave Coleridge a calculating glance.

"Why yes, I was.  My old Parish of St. Joseph's outside of Philadelphia burned down in a tragic accident.  I have been reassigned to these parts."

"I see," said Cranston.  His countenance looked appropriately pitiful, though not genuinely so.  "So, I'm supposed to find a place for you, then, I guess."

"That would be correct."

"Have you eaten, yet?"

"Not yet, Bishop."

"Please, call me David - we're of the same cloth.  What's your name?"

"I am Father Tyler Coleridge, Bishop Cranston."

"David, please," reminded Cranston.  "It's good to meet you, Tyler.  Let's get some food inside your belly and then we can discuss where you'll be performing Mass in the morning."  Cranston led Coleridge back to the Bishop's chambers, and Coleridge saw the remains of a large meal. There was half a baked chicken, vegetables and fruits of every variety laid out, and two half-eaten loaves of bread.  Cranston gave him a silver plate and fork and told him to dig in.  Coleridge did so, and took a seat at the side of the rounded rectangular table.

He examined the room while Cranston left to get some wine.  There were ornate rings near the preparatory area, and fancy robes with gold trim and silk lining held within the open closet.  The collection box was full.  Coleridge had never seen one as large or as full as the one Cranston had.  As he ate, Coleridge noted that the food was both succulent and savory.  The bread had herbs and spices Coleridge had never tasted - a sweet and robust flavor.  The chicken was moist and flavored with garlic and basil.  The fruit was a perfect compliment.  When Cranston returned with the decanter of red wine, Coleridge nearly forgot what the ferryman said, he had been so taken by the decadent meal in which he partook.

David Cranston

"This is the best wine on the island, Tyler," said Cranston as he poured two glasses full.  "It was a donation from the Marshall family just north of here.  Their estate does quite well, and donates much to the Church grounds.  I like to visit them once a week if possible - for just such delicacies."  Cranston smiled as he handed Coleridge the goblet of wine.  Cranston held his own for a toast, and Coleridge waited.  "To new arrivals - may your time benefit this parish, and bring the eyes of God upon us all."  Coleridge and Cranston tapped glasses.

Coleridge did not break eye contact as he drank his first drink.  The red wine was indeed very flavorful.  The thick aromatic finish wafted through his nose after he swallowed the liquid down.  Cranston set down his glass, and Coleridge did the same after finishing his drink.

"Normally," said Cranston, "I would have received a letter from the Holy Mother Church about your appointment.  But, since your church burned down, I guess we can find a good place for you here, if you were told to come here.  Who sent you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, if I can send a letter to him by rider, then maybe we can have this whole appointment cleared up.  Which Bishop in Philadelphia sent you here?"

"I must confess, Bishop," said Coleridge.  "I was sent by a higher power than the Church."

"What?"  Cranston was about to laugh, but saw Coleridge was serious.  "What higher power - God?" Cranston laughed as if it could not be conceived as believable.

"Something like that," Coleridge smiled.

"You're either delusional or a joke - who put you up to this, really?" asked Cranston with a grin.  "Was it Bishop Tasker from up north in Albany?"

"I assure you - I was sent by a higher power."

"You don't really think I believe that, do you?"

"Why is it so hard for a man of God to believe?"

"It's just very unlikely."

"Isn't it unlikely that a man would rise from the dead after three days, and then ascend into heaven?"  Cranston's smile vanished.

"Who are you, really?" Cranston set his goblet down on the table.

"I have told you the truth - Father Tyler Coleridge."

"You'll have to pardon me, Father Coleridge," sneered Cranston.  "It seems I will not be able to give you a place to stay for the night.  The rooms are occupied - and you have nothing to donate."

"Surely you have enough funds to help a fellow member of the cloth find lodging elsewhere, then?"  Coleridge looked towards the donations coffer.

"Those are funds for the Church, and used for Church needs - not to be used to give some vagabond a room at a local brothel.  Now, if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from this church, I have business I must attend to."  Coleridge frowned at the anger written on Cranston's face.

"You are forcing me out of God's house?"  Cranston held back outrage at the question Coleridge asked.  The Bishop's jowls began to ripple.

"You are testing my patience."  The Bishop moved over to grab Coleridge by the arm and try to lift him out of the chair.  Coleridge resisted.

"The ferryman told me you were not a man of God - I see he was correct.  Such a sad thing."  The Bishop stopped, wide eyes looked at the placid lake of Coleridge's face.  Cranston's cheeks grew red.

"I will ask you one more time - politely.  Will you please leave the premises?"  Cranston's hand had not been removed from Coleridge's arm.  There was an urge inside of Coleridge as he looked down to Cranston hand.  He wanted to stab Cranston's arm.

With blinding speed, he grabbed the fork he'd been using, and lodged it into Cranston's arm.  Coleridge did not avert his gaze from Cranston's face while doing so.  The sudden realization that he had been wounded slowly came over Cranston as he let out a cry of pain.

"You do not deserve this Church.  No, I will not remove myself."  Surely, Cranston was the reason he'd been sent to King's County.  Coleridge took his cutting knife as Cranston grabbed his own arm, mouth open and trying to yell.  It appeared to Coleridge that Cranston didn't have the first clue what to do or say, he just held the arm with the fork lodged into it.  Coleridge took the cutting knife, and jabbed the blade into Cranston's neck.  The Bishop's eyes grew even wider at the smile Coleridge gave.

Blood gushed from the wound and onto the ground, sanctifying the floor of the church.  The Bishop fell to his knees, and his eyes stared in disbelief towards Coleridge.  Coleridge took another cutting knife, the one from Cranston's side of the table, and plunged it into Cranston's shoulder - between the blades of bone.  It felt relieving - cleansing.  Coleridge felt the power of his divine father coursing through his veins as he ended the life of Bishop Cranston.

Just then, Coleridge saw the acolyte enter the room.  The boy looked surprised, and was about to run when Coleridge felt the divine power within him flare.

"Stop," Coleridge said.  He heard an echo to the word.  I reverberated through his own chest and bounced off the rock walls.  "Bishop Cranston had an accident - get the shovel, and I will see to cleaning this room."  Whispers echoed his words as they were being said.  The divine power he held within poured into his speech.  The boy's blank face nodded and walked away.

It took him one hour to bury Bishop Cranston.  It took him another to clean the blood from the floor - though the stain still remained.  When he finished, the acolyte looked at him for some sort of command.  He told the acolyte to return home and speak nothing of what he'd seen that night.

The next morning, Tyler Coleridge donned the Bishop's robes, and told his congregation the news: David Cranston had been reassigned, and he, Bishop Coleridge, would be taking over services.