Apocalypsis 1.07 Vision

by Giordano, Mario

  »Of course you will.« Seth rose brusquely from his chair. »I will leave you and Leonie alone for five minutes. Then you’ll have to go.«

  Seth and the armed monks left the room. Bühler could hear their footsteps in the adjacent lounges. For a brief moment, he seriously considered fleeing. Grabbing Leonie and escaping through the window. Just like that. But he knew better. He was on an island and it was likely that it was fully controlled by Seth’s people. So Bühler preferred to focus on his sister and on what might be the last minutes he would ever spend with her.

  He wrapped Leonie in his arms and stroked her hair, whispering soothing words into her ear. Stories about Mom and Dad, about the sun and the Snow Queen. How he had taught her to swim. How she had petted her first dog. How he had slipped on the dung when the two of them had mucked out that barn during their last vacation. How much he loved her. He, Colonel Bühler, Commander of the Swiss Guards, former Foreign Legionnaire, and soldier. 200 pounds of steel, and trained to use it against himself and the world. A man who had remained cool when looking death in the eye and seeing death come to others. A man who was broken now, sitting with his sister on a divan, sobbing like a child.

  »Don’t cry, Ursli. I am here with you!«

  »I’m not crying, my sun. I am just so happy.«

  »Why are you so happy?«

  »Because you are so beautiful.«

  »I am the sun.«

  »Yes, you are.«

  Five minutes. An eternity. The blink of an eye. Leonie started crying when the two monks came to lead her away. He felt his heart breaking.

  »Ursli! The men want to hurt me again!«

  Bühler was in tears. »No, they will not hurt you again!« he called after her. »I’ll be back soon, my sun, I promise!«

  Seth handed Bühler a cell phone. »Keep it turned on at all times. I will call you soon. And keep in mind that I will find you wherever you are. You should never underestimate my capabilities.«

  Bühler tried to recognize the man’s face under the hood, but the only thing that was vaguely perceptible through the mask was that Seth looked old.

  »I want to talk to my sister over the phone, regularly, so that I know she is fine. Do you understand me?«

  »You are not really in a position to make any demands, Colonel Bühler.«

  »That’s how it’s going to be,« Bühler said. »And when it’s all over, I will kill you.«

  »For that matter, Colonel Bühler, you should not harbor too many illusions about your own survival.«

  LV

  * * *

  From: creutzfeldt@ordislux.np

  To: master@ordislux.np

  May 15, 2011 11:04:33 GMT+01:00

  Re: Status

  Master!

  P.A. is awake and alert; his vitals are stable. Remains uncooperative, though, when it comes to questions about the relic, and the surveillance camera showed that he refused his medication after my visit.

  Requesting further instructions.

  May the light speed you.

  Creutzfeldt

  * * *

  * * *

  From: master@ordislux.np

  To: creutzfeldt@ordislux.np

  May 15, 2011 11:32:01 GMT+01:00

  Re: RE: Status

  Preliminary treatment plan for P.A.: soft approach.

  Issue in P. has been resolved. Expect my arrival tonight.

  S.

  * * *

  May 15, 2011, Ile de Cuivre, Mediterranean Sea

  The sky outside his window was still shining, unwavering and blue, when they came into his little room to get him. Dr. Creutzfeldt, as unwavering and mild as the sky outside, appeared with two male nurses in white outfits.

  »Would you please stand up, Peter!«

  Peter did not budge. »Why?«

  Instead of giving him an answer, the two strong male nurses lifted him out of bed and dropped him onto his feet. Peter tried to fight back but the men were holding him with well practiced grips of steel.

  »Where are you taking me?«

  »To your treatment.«

  He began to panic. With all his strength and despair, he squirmed and writhed in the grasp of the two men.

  »Don’t worry, Peter. It won’t hurt,« Dr. Creutzfeldt said, as he walked ahead. »You are just making it unnecessarily hard on yourself.«

  They led him through the long corridor that he could still remember. The same corridor, the same doors.

  »What time is it?«

  No answer.

  »How many other patients do you have here?«

  »Right now, it is just you and Mister Kelly.«

  They were leading him down the same stairs that he had taken the night before. When they reached the ground level of the building, they took him into a medical examination room with a chair in the middle. Without waiting for a command, the two male nurses pushed him into the chair and strapped him down. Dr. Creutzfeldt filled up a syringe.

  The panicky feeling that it would all soon be over.

  »Please, don’t!« Peter gasped. »Please.«

  Creutzfeldt stepped closer. »Just a little prick, Peter, and you will feel much better. Try to relax.«

  Peter stared at the syringe in Creutzfeldt’s hand. The doctor tapped a few times on Peter’s forearm and then he injected the needle with routine precision. Peter gave a moan and waited for the agony to hit. He saw that Creutzfeldt removed the needle from his skin and then he began to smile at him, mildly.

  »How are you feeling?«

  Peter was frantically trying to swallow down his panic. Something hot was crawling through his veins. It began to percolate through his body, creeping further and further like a snake searching for prey, until it had taken full possession of his entire self.

  And then, all of a sudden, everything became easy and light. Peter felt a pleasant warmth in his body. The panic and the itching dropped off him like powdered sugar from a cake.

  Madeira cake. Poppy seed cake. Nut cake. Chocolate cake with vanilla pudding and sour cherries. Apple turnover. Yum, yum, yum.

  »How do you feel right now?«

  Marzipan cake. Vanilla crescents.

  »Good.«

  »What are you thinking about right now?«

  »Cake.«

  »Cake! That’s good. Do you like to eat cake, Peter?«

  »Yes.«

  »Did your mother bake cakes for you?«

  »Yes.«

  Suddenly, everything was easy. Simple questions, simple answers. The truth was a little word, very easy to say. A key fitting perfectly into its lock. The solution to the equation. The awakening after a gruesome nightmare.

  »How lovely! Imagine cakes. What is your favorite cake?«

  The truth was a friendly smile. The truth was:

  »Carrot cake.«

  »That sounds terrific. With the tiny red marzipan carrots on top, right?«

  »Yes.«

  »Imagine, it is your birthday, Peter. It is your ninth birthday.« Creutzfeldt’s voice was far, far away.

  Where is he?

  »Can you picture it, Peter?«

  »Yes.«

  »It is summer. It is warm. A perfect day. The perfect day to celebrate your birthday. The whole world is crinkling and rustling, waiting to be discovered and unwrapped by you. Your mother has set the table in the garden. No plastic dishes but the good china because you are nine now and no longer a little child. And in the center of the table sits the carrot cake that you wanted to have. You are so looking forward to eating it. Imagine the carrot cake, Peter, juicy and still a little bit warm. You can barely wait to dip the first piece into your hot chocolate. But you wait. You wait for the friends that you have invited. This is your day, Peter. You are nine years old and the world is a huge adventure. There! Your mother is calling you. She is in the house and she wants you to come inside. The Pope has just arrived and he has brought you a gift. As he does every year. But today is your ninth birthday and so he has brought you a very special gift. You kno
w that. You run back into the house but you cannot find the Pope. Where is he? You start searching for him. You search and search and search. Where do you find him?«

  Sat and slept, sat and slept…

  The truth was a calm river gurgling through a shadowy forest. Trout glistening in the sunlight. Shimmering leaves sprinkled with sunrays. The truth was like light. One could simply walk through it and shine.

  »In the library.«

  »Yes, in the library. That is where he is hiding. He wanted to make it a little bit exciting for you. He wraps you in his arms and he laughs. Now he is telling you that he has hidden your present somewhere in the library. You just need to find it. Start searching, Peter. Go, find your gift. Where is it?«

  Little rabbit, are you ill, why can’t you jump up the hill?

  »On the shelf.«

  »Of course. On the shelf. Where exactly on the shelf?«

  »Inside the wall behind the photo.«

  »And there you finally find it: your gift. It is a huge box wrapped in white paper and a yellow ribbon, which is tied in a bow that looks like a cross. Your birthday present from the Pope. Hold it in your hands. How does it feel?«

  »Light.«

  »Yes, of course, it is light. You shake the box a bit. What do you hear?«

  »Clattering.«

  »It is clattering. But now, you can no longer contain your curiosity. You tear off the yellow ribbon and the white paper. You open the box. Open the box, Peter. Did you open the box?«

  »Yes.«

  »Tell me what you see inside the box, Peter. What is the gift the Pope gave you?«

  The truth. The truth was a gift. The truth was as light as falling blossoms. The truth simply followed the laws of gravity. The lie, however, was a rock, endlessly heavy and as hard as crystal. Every time he tried to lift it, his arms shattered like thin glass vials. But the truth… one could catch the truth. One could puff it up in the air. It was so light. So easy.

  »What do you see, Peter? Tell me what you see. It is so easy. You want to tell me. It will be our little secret. What is inside the box?«

  »Parch… ments.«

  »What kind of parchments? Describe them to me.«

  The rock. Peter tried to lift it. He didn’t want to do it. He wanted to chase after the falling blossoms, so badly. But a voice that was coming to him from far, far away whispered into his mind that he had to lift the rock. At any cost. The rock.

  »I cannot… read them. They are just… old parchments.«

  Somewhere behind him, he heard footsteps shuffling on the stone floor. Suddenly, Creutzfeldt’s voice was close again, very close, as he began to whisper into his ear.

  »But there is more inside the box. There is the thing that clattered. What is it? Tell me what it is. I will not take it away from you, I promise.«

  The truth was a February garden filled with blossoming almond trees. The truth was honey dissolving in hot milk. The truth was a June night. The truth was a whispered promise.

  What did you just say?

  »Very good, Peter. Just beautiful how you described this blue amulet. I can almost see it before my eyes. And the symbol, too. Your drawing is very precise. Very good. A really beautiful gift. Now go back into the garden. Quickly! In the meantime, your friends have arrived. They are already sitting at the table. All your friends. The Pope is also sitting there. Don Luigi sits next to him. But who else is sitting at the table? Who is now holding the amulet?«

  The lie was a rock, too heavy to be lifted. A root, too strong to be pulled out. A sky, too high to be ripped apart. But this was exactly the reason why one had to try. Over and over again.

  »Nobody.«

  »Nobody? No, Peter. Someone else is sitting there; I can clearly see it. Who is sitting there?«

  The warmth subsided. The rock became a little lighter.

  »Nobody.«

  But then there was this little needle prick and again, the warmth flushed through his body, and the rock crystallized into a monstrous boulder resting in soggy earth. Heavy. Endlessly heavy. Time and again he broke his thin match like arms as he tried to lift the rock. Time and again.

  »Who else is sitting there, Peter? It is very easy.«

  »Ellen.«

  »Of course. But Ellen is sitting at the other end of the table. Someone is sitting between her and Don Luigi. Who is it?«

  The lie was a raging demon ready to devour him. He was already devoured.

  »Peter? Don’t make it so hard on yourself. Who else is sitting there? Who has the amulet?«

  »Maria.«

  LVI

  May 15, 2011, Montpellier

  Hail! Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, O most gracious advocate, your eyes of mercy towards us; and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of your womb, Jesus. O clement! O loving! O sweet Virgin Mary!«

  Maria ended her third rosary as usual with the Salve Regina, and already she felt more stable and less lost than before. The recitation of the 150 Hail Marys of the full rosary gave her strength, keeping her inner self from falling apart and her dark thoughts at bay. The almost mechanical praying of the Psalter of Mary, each one followed by a meditation on another mystery, translated her from this world and wrapped her in a protective cloak against hopelessness and loneliness. And rarely had there been a time in her life when she had felt as lost and lonely as she had felt since saying goodbye to Peter last night. She was overcome by a strange trepidation that robbed her of sleep, shaking her soul at the fine line between her two identities: Maria the nun and Maria the human being. A human being of flesh and blood and unfulfilled desires. A woman who was as susceptible to the tides of her emotions as any other human being. But for a nun who lived her faith, emotions were one thing and desires were another. The solemn vows that she had once taken from the bottom of her heart protected her from the desires of the flesh, blending both Marias into an indivisible entity. However, last night a small gap had formed between these two Marias, a fine hairline crack exuding the scent of an aftershave, the warmth of a hand and certain desires and images that she could not allow. When she thought back to the last week, it all started to come back, all the terrible and mysterious things that had happened. Days filled with death and imminent doom. And yet at the same time, one of the most wonderful weeks of her life. Maria began to feel shame and guilt as she admitted this to herself.

  How much she had enjoyed these days with Peter!

  How free she had felt! Free and complete.

  And beautiful.

  When had she last felt like this? Maria lay undressed on the bed of her small hotel room in Montpellier, trying to remember. She was still holding the rosary in her hand, letting it rest calm and heavy on her belly. Silently she watched her belly rise and fall with every breath. Through a gap in the curtains, she could see a slice of the sky. Images of her childhood flashed before her eyes. A garden. Her mother’s laugh. Her father’s hands as he played the piano. Her dismay and the realization that he could no longer be with her. The anger at seeing him but not being able to hug him. The exuberance she felt when she and her mother rode their bikes together. Then Richard, her first boyfriend. His face next to hers as he was sleeping. Later on: the silence of the convent. The beaming smile on Grace’s face because her family had taken her back. The grief on the face of an adolescent LRA rebel. The sight of a straying hyena. The confidence that she found in prayer.

  Suffering and happiness, always so close together. God’s wonderful and mysterious plan. The secret of life and faith: trust in God.

  But this was the problem: she had lost her unconditional trust when Peter flew away last night. She tried to picture the copper island. She tried to imagine how Peter had landed there with his parachute. But the images remained hazy, as if shrouded by fog. Why hadn’t she tried to stop him making this insane attempt? It was pos
sible that he was dead, that he had crashed or drowned, or that they had caught and tortured him, and perhaps she would never find out about it. At the thought that she might never see Peter again, she felt another wave of shame and guilt sweep over her. Not so much because she feared for Peter’s life, but because her own life seemed so endlessly empty if Peter was really dead.

  With a painful sigh, Maria sat up. It was pointless to spend the entire day lying on the bed, waiting. Completely and utterly pointless. Worrying about Peter would drive her mad, even if she continued to pray her rosary. For a brief moment, Maria considered calling Don Luigi, but then she thought better of it. Too risky, too futile. At this point, neither Don Luigi nor anyone else could help Peter. One could only pray and hope. Hope that praying would help. Faith.

  Maria remembered reading reports about tests that had been conducted at the renowned Princeton University, where already Albert Einstein had taught. A study group by the name of PEAR had used scientific and experimental methods to examine the long-distance capacity of the human consciousness and also of prayers on human beings and machines. The measurements revealed significant differences as to the well-being of the individuals who had been prayed for by others.

  Although Maria did not need any scientific proof to be convinced of the power of prayer, she regarded the results as a silent triumph of faith.

  And she knew that her faith would be strong, strong enough to save Peter’s life.

  Filled with determination, she rose from her bed and got dressed. She wanted to do something, anything that could further Peter’s investigations. For Peter would come back. She was absolutely sure of that. He. Would. Come. Back. To her.

  Maria drew the curtains open, letting light, life, and fresh air into the room. Go! But where to start? She was ready for action as she stood, thinking, in the middle of the small hotel room. Then she reached into the pocket of her raincoat and pulled out the only tangible clue that she had at this point: the amulet.