It’s probably best that I don’t lick the sacred relic in front of Father Fishy. In any case, I’d much prefer to turn around and run away, leaving it as far behind me as I can. That’s how much it frightens me, or frightens the part of me that thinks and worries. The thing itself, though, is transgressively seductive: so physically appealing, so sensuous, like a bad suitor who knows exactly how to smile to weaken your resolve. For all that it’s been the scene of a murder, Father Fishy is awfully proud of it, the way my son was with some contraption of sticks and mud. He’s looking over his shoulder at me to see if I approve, and the closer I get the more I hate it, the more I feel cold and sick. I give him an impressed little smile, and he fairly curtseys at the small vindication.