by Clay Ferrill
As for the experiments I conducted and the short relationships I’ve formed with various clone versions I produce to life, I will live their short human lives with them, gently, and have, in all cases, watched them die as well. This makes me sad and it’s the only time I ever cry with true sorrow. I cry at death because life is truly so very precious and fragile. I cry at the loss of their innocence, too, in this evil and cruel world brimming with evil intentions.
So, I put them down however I can, painlessly taking their short lives away from them as quickly as God allows me to snatch it from them. I incinerate the remains. I end them. I kill them. But inevitably, when they know they must be ended, they still themselves in calm surrender to it. Some will even willingly crawl into the incineration chamber to meet their end, if I would allow it. I will not. This has happened many times, their instinct to please so great. They are kind and caring souls to want to save me from having to deliver them to death. They are not monsters. They are human men with souls from The Guf, all.
In Judeo-Christian mythology, ‘The Guf’ is the Hall of Souls. Every time an infant is born, this is where its soul comes from. Folklore wills that sparrows can see the soul's descent from The Guf, explaining their beautiful song. In that mythology, a day will come when the sparrow sings no more. A finite number of souls in The Guf will have been reached. It's when the last soul is used, and The Guf is empty, that the world will end. The first infant born without a human soul, born dead as a soulless child must be, heralds the death of the world in those myths. The Final Sign, as it were.
Standing at my place at the head of the table, the various cardinals and bishop speaking in hushed tones, the asshole from Florence is acting up again, losing his cool and gesturing wildly with his hands, his fat face puffs red with anger. They’re so busy they don’t even notice when Cole silently enters the room. His tall frame, the shock of blonde hair contrasts with his black heavy wool cassock, the only black in the room, my cassock a heavy gray wool. Neatly pressed, wearing his brothers’ collar. It is a cold winter day outside, so everyone wearing a cassock or robes is wearing formal heavy wool and the Cardinal Red or Purple of their rank and sub-rank. His facial features really are quite stunning to see in person. The precise reason His Holiness had insisted he be prepared and presented here.
Hitching a breath, almost a gasp, I fix my eyes on him and smile widely. Gradually those hurried urgent discussions fade as one-by-one, they turn their heads to see him standing there, as if at attention, his eyes only on me. Once the room has stilled he breaks eye contact with me and surveys the seated group and walks past them with large confident strides and extends his hand to shake mine in greeting, just as instructed. He leaned in and kissed my cheek tenderly. This surprised me. His cassock is absent the classic Roman collar out of respect for this council, and to still their objections to his ordination, who now looked on him with no expression. He wears the collar of brother, which is an inverted triangle of white showing instead of the rectangle of white of the traditional Roman collar, that indicates a practicing priest of the church.
“Thank you for joining us Father Coleman. May I introduce you to everyone seated here today?” He smiled, turning to face them shaking his head no almost boyishly, smiling more widely as he turned to the table, his teeth bright white and perfect. In a deep, calm voice, the smile fixed and bright, he began pointing to each man seated “Cardinals Agro, D’Aldace’, Carleo, Dominick, Garza, Mosconi, hello to you, Your Eminences. I am Father Coleman Livingston.” He continued, his smile beaming pride at being able to remember the council member’s names, pointing correctly to each of them. Endearing, that, and I could see the effect it was having on them at his recognition of them individually. I always study their expressions.
They warm to him almost instantly ... “Bishop Zarilli. Hello to you.” Walking slowly around the table now, lingering just a few moments by each man, he extended his large, soft hands to grasp them and shake their hand firmly with both of his, conveying his power and strength in his grip. He’s also dosing them with pheromones in this close proximity, so they work immediately. He is clever. Make them totally compliant in their adoration of him. I see the truth in that. They don’t know they’re being pheromone-dosed. He only wills their compliance and for them to like him. That need in him is always present in every interaction with a fellow human.
Father Cole spoke to the room once he’d finished shaking the last man’s hand. “I am aware of my purpose in this … incarnation. I know who I am and what I am. It is my sincere regret that I will likely not meet any of you again after today. My life is short and my work for you will take me very far away, to the middle east, as you all well know. I am to assess and then report back and only to this Holy Council through Father Dunn. We do have digital surveillance access in that part of the world and a great deal of gathered intelligence, so most of the assessment I conduct will be done here in the archives before I leave my Vatican residence. I do not restate mission here for that is for this Holy Council to decide. I only provide you with my progress and meet you in person this one time.” He paused, his stance firm and his hands intertwined grasping his dangling rosary. “Are there any questions for me, Your Eminence’s?”
They each sat staring at the tall handsome priest, his cropped blonde hair and dark blue eyes and perfect smile. Speechless, all. I spoke then, knowing he had been extremely nervous about this and needed to leave as quickly as possible to head outside to pace. He had done very well indeed. “Thank you, Father Cole. His Holiness will be sorry to have missed you, but we understand, you have urgent work to do” shaking his hand last. Smiling into his smiling eyes I nodded my head yes proudly. With that he raised a hand in good-bye and walked swiftly and silently to the door in giant strides, opened it and closed it again as silently as when he had entered.
Perfectly timed and executed. At that second, 5 minutes until the bells announce the noon hour and our prayers of thanks are heard in unison, the doors swung open on all three sides of the large room as various attendants and assistants scurried in to collect their aged charges and escort them to the Feast Supper downstairs. Cole had been brilliant. I stood nodding smiles as they all filed out of the room. So comfortable and confident, his message delivered with perfectly annunciated Italian. His Holiness will be so pleased. As the room emptied slowly, I retrieved the memory stick and put it in my cassock pocket.
Standing by the windows looking down into the garden, I see him there, pacing. I smile. He had been nervous of this meeting initially, but we rehearsed what he would say and he only made one mistake in judgment. He referred to his new life as an incarnation. No one had taught him that word or its meaning to my knowledge, yet it was appropriately used when he spoke so kindly and briefly. Still though, it had been a risk on his part as Catholicism does not believe in reincarnation, which would have been the more apt term to use to describe his life in my view. It is, scientifically speaking, true. He is reincarnated. By science.
It states clearly in doctrine that there is no reincarnation after death. The belief in reincarnation, also called metempsychosis, in Greek meaning to animate after death, believes that souls inhabit a series of bodies and can live many lives on this earth before being completely purified, so released from the need to migrate to another body. According to this belief, the soul pre-exists its embodiment and after death exists in a disembodied state before animating once again, a body of the same or even a different species. In various forms, reincarnation has been accepted by Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, Neoplatonists, some Christian sects, and others. But belief in the resurrection and official rejection of the preexistence of souls rule out reincarnation by Catholics, and most Christians for that matter.
By maintaining an indefinite series of chances at life in their belief, the doctrine of reincarnation reduces the seriousness of God’s grace and of human liberty, exercised in one life that is terminated by a once-and-for-all death. In summary, the Catholic Church has never, nor will it ever emb
race belief in reincarnation because it is in total opposition to the central beliefs and tenants of the faith itself.
We need to understand that Plato believed in reincarnation, and the Christian Church has used the philosophy of Plato throughout its history to attempt to express its theology. Some of the philosophy used was what was called Neoplatonism. Some people, at times, have used language that echoed language commonly used to describe reincarnation. Some have thought language by some of the councils seemed to border on a belief in reincarnation. But careful reading will show it was just the opposite. The Catholic Church has never believed in reincarnation. It is contrary to scripture and our traditions.
Outside in the large garden, mostly vacant, Father Cole paces back and forth staring at his feet as I watched patiently, only His Holiness and I know what is about to happen here as I look on.
Across a stone walkway, his hands folded behind his back, head bowed deep in thought. It was then that he first glimpsed the young priest Luigi Berlusconi and I watched as their eyes met.
There was a knowing when their eyes met then. A flash of sorts. I am certain of it. Something instinctual and timeless. A warmth in their mutual gaze at one another.
This had made Cole smile as he continued pacing back and forth, looking back at Luigi several times, his smile widening more each time as his very soul recognized him.
Returning to his thoughts, still smiling. He will go to that pathway often and do this exact thing. Pace in thought. When asked, he won’t know why but he will tell you he associates the garden, just there where he paces, with calm and peacefulness. As have all of his previous versions and described it in exactly that same phrase or words each time.
This is him. This is his last version. His last rendering.
There Luigi is again now, having circled back around in his pacing pattern, standing just inside Cole’s peripheral vision.
My excitement grows, the two of them completely alone in the garden now as various attendants appeared and escorted people out silently, leaving them completely alone now.
Hands folded behind his back as well, simply standing there waiting to be noticed by the tall priest pacing back and forth in thought. Smiling widely in anticipation of their eyes meeting again.
My heart swells with anxiousness and I am crying. It is unfolding just as planned. You can see it on his expression clearly.
Anticipation. Curiosity. Love?
Cole’s pacing slowed as he read the young priest’s pheromone signals. He smiled again. The young man standing now close, was in fact quite interested in Cole and who he was.
He stopped pacing and lifted his gaze to the smiling young priest. He is a beautiful young man. Almost cherubic. His fair complexion, large eyes and dark brown curls the very image of him in life. His eyes clear and dark gold in color from even this distance.
I have not seen this young priest before right now, only having read of him and his education. Significant accomplishments for a man as young as he is. I was simply told to have Cole done and in the garden at this time so they may have the chance to meet while others gather to pray at the noon bells. To see what happens. Oh my God. He really is quite a beautiful man.
Cole walked up to him and stood facing him then, looking down into Luigi’s beautiful upturned face. Cole smiled holding his hand out to shake Luigi’s. He leaned down and whispered something into Luigi’s ear and then stood up straight again. At 6’4” tall, Luigi’s head came to the bottom of Cole’s proud chin. If it is really is God’s will, it will be love at first sight.
Walking together now, their heads turned to face the other, smiling and talking, hands folded behind their backs they strolled slowly, speaking words I will never myself hear from Cole’s mouth. I turned back into the room in time to hear His Holiness arrive in the dining room downstairs. Such a fuss they make for him. He is a man. Fancy hat, fancy cloak, fancy shoes, lots of jewels, yes, but he is just a man. A friend. I hurried then to join them before he speaks his beautiful prayers over us.
Chapter Three
1508 A.D.
The Young Apprentice Learns
I left Ilsa in the kitchen with her worried expression I could no longer bare and went into my father’s small study, closing the door quietly behind me. Opening the guild box on top of the makeshift table he used as a desk, I set the lid aside deciding at that moment that I will sell the gilded box.
Reviewing the contents again for any sign of even small amounts owed to us or to our estate. These notes mostly a bartered exchange of goods in previous examining. This is now getting desperate though, I know. It is fine if just the three of us here, we get by, God willing, but we have guests of foreign aristocracy, so this condition simply will not stand. Remembering the two black books, I took them down from the shelf and loosened the leather tie from the first, the thicker of the two.
These were my father’s accounts for the estate. If we are owed any monies that can be readily collected on, it will be scribed here. I have neglected my responsibilities long enough. It is up to me now.
Three small pieces of parchment fell to the table top, more barter notes on quick inspection. I pushed them aside and set it down and sat down on the stool. Inside the fold of the second page, I found a sealed letter and on closer inspection, the seal was the Vatican seal. Unopened still. My mother had mentioned this and I had forgotten about it. It had come the day he died, by horse messenger. My mother had been otherwise distracted with his sudden passing, his horse lamed in deep mud that he himself had fallen into, unable to pull himself up from the grip of it.
Pulling at the wax seal I opened the envelope addressed to my father. Inside was a note from the Vatican’s Art Council thanking my father by name for the painting “Yellow Roses in Moonlight”. I unfurled the small paper enclosed to read the amount of the note. Ten thousand ducats? Ten thousand ducats?!! A fortune! I held the note as I walked briskly to the salon to speak with my mother, the unrolled parchment letter in the other hand. I walked up behind her and dropped the bank note in front of her on the table. She laid her cards down and picked it up, adjusting its distance from her face to make sure she was reading the number correctly. She jumped and turned her body suddenly, her head turned up to me, a wide smile of joy spreading over her face.
My father had sold the painting I had painted for my mother’s 30th birthday when I was just 9 years old? It had been my first finished painting and I hadn’t even noticed it missing. Rather than hang it, my mother kept it propped in a small easel she had crafted from spare wood on her bedside table. At 30 inches long and only 11 inches high, it looked awkward there but she had insisted she look at it every morning as her first sight of another blessed day.
“May I speak with you a moment in private mother? Marquesa my love, may I ask Ilsa to refresh your drink? Archy? Are you thirsty for more chilled lemon water?” They both nodded yes as Marquesa waved her dainty laced fan to wind her face. It was unseasonably hot this afternoon and there was not even the gift of breeze. I called out through the relative silence of the room “Ilsa, more beverage for our guests if you please. Grazie mille.” My mother rose and took my arm and I walked her to the other end of the house to her bedroom. The painting was indeed gone. This made me sad. It had been the only thing I could give to her on her birthday that I myself owned to give. My art. The talent she had so carefully nurtured in me as a child.
“Ten thousand for that painting? Who in their right mind would buy that painting for ten thousand ducats? I was only 9 when I painted that! Ten thousand ducats?! Mother, do you know what this means of our future here? I could paint you a thousand yellow rose paintings in moonlight with ten thousand ducats and still live comfortably for many years to come!”
She was not smiling. Rather, her eyes were cast down to the floor and then up to the unrolled parchment letter I held in my hand, still unread. She raised her eyes to me when I fell silent. In the doorway behind her I saw his tall shadow stop short of walking into the room. I did not see hi
s shadow withdraw. I looked back down at her and she was looking up at me with tears in her eyes. Then she opened her mouth and explained everything in a rushing confession to free herself from its burden unaware of his presence. “Your father had sent the small painting to the Vatican praying that only his son could apprentice there rather than in Venice where you were so unhappy my darling. He sent the letter as a plea of sorts, to Pope Julius II himself, he did. Sending along the small painting as proof of what he called your ‘artistic genius’.”
In three sobbing sentences she laid waste to the next five years of my life at least. My father had sold my talent to the Vatican for a paid Assistant position, at least above that of simple apprentice. According to the letter, which I stood there and read now for the first time, I was to move to Rome within the year and spend the next ten years of my life in that position of servitude. I was flabbergasted. I had thought myself free of that kind of existence. What would become of our Urbino farms if I myself am not here to labor to keep them up? What of this season’s citrus harvest now upon us if not me? My mother? Ilsa? No!
I could not go to Rome if we were to maintain the farms. It seemed unthinkable to me to hire laborers to do the work it was my responsibility to do. But we may not have another option. My father sold me for ten years of servitude to The Vatican and had given his word in exchange for ten thousand ducats. The payment was for me, not for my adolescent painting.