The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  3

  Isle de Sainte Bernadette, Brittany, France.

  A flight from Rome to Paris, and then on to Brest in Brittany, North West France, left Fagan in entirely the opposite direction he wanted to be. He crested a hill in the rental car and got his first view of the island as the sun finally slipped over the horizon. It rose like Neptune himself, emerging from the depths. Sheer stone cliffs faced out to the grey Atlantic ocean, then sloped away gradually inland, running down to a smooth landing on the lee side, where a narrow causeway ran out from the mainland to meet it. Small buildings huddled around the island’s shore, and a narrow track ran upwards into the evening mist, where nestled in Neptune’s arms as if hiding from the Atlantic storms, were the stone walls of the Abbaye de Sainte Bernadette.

  The island disappeared from view as he followed the narrow road through the trees. The village appeared at a crossroads and a small road sign announced Le Bouquet. To the left was the Mairie, the town hall, and to the right, the church. Across the road with its rear facing down to the harbor, was the hotel – La Belle Bernadette.

  The hotel appeared more like an old medieval keep than a country inn. The stone walls looked substantial and on each corner sat a round tower with a conical, grey tiled roof. Fagan parked the rental car and removed his bag, then headed inside.

  The owner, a tall, slim man in his early forties, greeted him in English. “Father Fagan, I presume.”

  The man introduced himself as Sebastian. Fagan handed over his Vatican passport and signed in. Sebastian led the way up a winding staircase and showed him to a small but clean and tidy room.

  Sebastian glanced at his watch. “We serve dinner until nine. I would recommend the Carte du Jour, the chef has excelled himself.” The Frenchman smiled. “As always.”

  The dining room was empty. A waiter appeared and sat him at a table by the window. Fagan went with Sebastian’s recommendation, and the waiter took his order then returned with the wine, a chilled Sancerre, in a silver ice bucket. He removed the cork, poured a glass and replaced the bottle in the ice bucket.

  Fagan took a sip and wondered what the hell he was doing here. He should have been on a plane back to Africa, back to a place where he could make a difference, anywhere but here. Luca had mentioned his unique skills. He wished to God he had never had them in the first place. He wasn’t even sure he possessed them anymore.

  But deep inside he knew that wasn’t true. He knew if he closed his eyes, Joe Fagan would be staring right back at him.

  He was still mad at Luca. Mad at him for his persuasive ways, mad at him for asking, for sending him even close to the path he had promised himself he would never go again. Most of all he was mad at himself, for not being strong enough. But he owed Luca, and Luca knew that.

  Luca had slipped a large manila envelope across the table to him. ‘It’s all in there. It’s just a simple investigation.’

  ‘I’m sure he has lots of people who are more qualified to do an investigation.’

  ‘I told you, Joseph, he needs someone he can trust.’

  There was a point you reached with Luca when you were just wasting your time. He had taken a quick look at the material. A Benedictine monk killed in a hit and run accident.

  ‘Brother Thomas was an old friend of his,’ Luca had said. ‘In fact an old friend of both of us. He just wants to know what happened.’

  ‘A look at the police report I’m sure would give him all the information he needed. And I’m sure you could arrange that.’

  But there was more to it than that, with Luca there always was. And as always, Luca was not telling.

  The food arrived, and Fagan realized he was starving. It appeared that at least Sebastian was telling the truth. The Soupe de Poisson Bretonne was outstanding, and the grilled sole almost worth the journey - almost. He was mopping up the last morsels of the fish with a chunk of crusty French bread when he noticed a man talking to Sebastian at the far side of the room. Sebastian pointed in his direction.

  He was a tall, good looking man, dressed in a smart charcoal grey suit, with a dark red tie. Unfortunately, to Fagan’s eye, which was a curse that was never going away, he had policeman written all over him. He approached Fagan’s table.

  “Father Joseph Fagan?”

  Fagan nodded.

  “I am Captain Yves Jacquot, Brest Gendarmerie.”

  Fagan stood up and held out his hand. “Captain, please take a seat.”

  The policemen took his hand in a firm grip but remained standing. “Thank you, no.”

  Fagan took his seat. “How can I help you, Captain?”

  The policeman pulled a folder from beneath his arm. “My superintendent asked me to give you the police report on the death of Brother Thomas.”

  It seemed that Luca was reaching out again. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. Won’t you join me for a drink?” Fagan gestured towards the half empty bottle of Sancerre.

  “Unfortunately, I still have work to do. You will find my business card inside the folder. If you have any questions, please, do not hesitate to call me.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be sure to do that.”

  Jacquot gave a formal nod, then turned and left. Fagan watched him go, quite certain that giving him the report was not the Captain’s choice. He looked down at it, a document that Luca could just as easily have sitting on his own desk. But Luca wanted him here, with this report, and Luca never did anything by chance.

  Fagan tucked the folder under his arm and headed for the bar.

  “How was dinner?” Sebastian greeted him as he approached.

  “The fish soup was unbelievable and the sole. . .” Fagan closed his eyes and gently shook his head.

  “The chef’s specialty.” Sebastian beamed. “Can I get you a digestif?”

  “I think I’ll take a Cognac up to my room.”

  “You should try the Calvados.”

  Fagan’s head turned, looking for the speaker. She sat at the end of the bar.

  His throat was suddenly dry.

  She wore faded jeans and what looked like a man’s sweater. Her face was without a trace of makeup. It was her natural beauty that caught him by surprise. Her skin unblemished and perfect. Her thick raven hair tied up in a loose bun behind her head, with pixie-like spikes protruding like a halo. Maybe it was the lights in the bar, but it appeared to have an inner glow.

  She looked at him with deep brown eyes that seemed amused, as if enticing him in.

  “It is local, distilled from apples. I am sure you will like it.” She spoke English with an accent as smooth as honey.

  Fagan willed the priest in him to break the spell and returned the smile. Proof that God exists, as Luca would say whenever a pretty girl passed them in the street.

  Nevertheless, he turned away and looked at Sebastian.

  “She’s right,” Sebastian said. “The Calvados is excellent.”

  Fagan gave a nod. “In that case.”

  Sebastian smiled and disappeared into the adjoining bar.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business, I’m afraid.” He found himself struggling to get the words out of his throat.

  “The Abbey?”

  He looked at her again, and his hand went subconsciously to his collar. “Yes,” he said, and immediately regretted it. He was supposed to be on confidential business, and here he was, looking at a pretty girl and blabbing like an adolescent kid.

  She seemed to sense his discomfort. “Forgive me. I always ask too many questions. I should introduce myself. I’m Francoise - Francoise Lefevre.” She lifted her right hand in place of a handshake.

  Fagan did the same. “Joseph Fagan.” He felt like an embarrassed teenager.

  “If you have a little spare time, the weather forecast is good, and the coast along here is very beautiful.”

  Fortunately, Sebastian arrived to rescue him. He placed the glass of Calvados on the bar in front of Fagan.

  “Voila, enjoy.”

  Fagan nodded his
thanks and took the opportunity to escape.

  “Unfortunately I still have work to do.” He picked up the glass. “I’ll say goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Father. Perhaps I will see you around.” She gave him a smile that disturbed something deep inside him.

  He nodded and walked a little too quickly towards the sanctuary of the stairs. He started to climb, a slight smile on his face. Sometimes it was good to know there was still a man inside.

  Le Bouquet, Brittany.

  Smoke floated blue grey in the lamplight out on the cobbled street that ran down to the harbor. A chill had set into the evening, and the woman had pulled on a ski jacket and zipped it up to the neck.

  “Fagan.” She stamped her feet against the cold as she spelled out the name. “Father Joseph Fagan. He has a Vatican diplomatic passport. Find out what you can.” She hung up the cell phone and took a long pull on the cigarette, then contemplated the smoke as it unfurled beneath the street lamp. She was no longer smiling.

  4

  Papal Apartments, The Vatican.

  “How was the White House?” Father Luca sat across the dining table from Pope Salus I.

  The Holy Father smiled. “Oh, very grand.” He was a handsome man, still not yet sixty, the youngest Supreme Pontiff of the modern era. The fact that he was the first African to step into the shoes of the fisherman, only seemed to underline more about this extraordinary man.

  The New York Times had described him as a fine pastor, a brilliant administrator, and an outstanding diplomat.

  ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man,’ they had proclaimed when he had ascended to the Papal throne. The wolves in the Curia had seen him as a face for the Church, out in the world smiling for the cameras, pressing the flesh, while they stayed at home in control. Now two years in, they were less complimentary. Salus had taken control himself, driving a radical agenda aimed at not only changing the Church but changing the whole world.

  “I saw your speech at the United Nations,” Father Luca said. “They ran the whole thing on CNN. It was a major achievement, even getting the UN to allow you to speak.”

  “The President pulled a few strings.”

  “It helps to have friends in high places.”

  “Oh, James and I go back a long way.”

  Pope Salus smiled at the memory, an ambitious, young, African-American Senator, and him, William Tsonga, recently appointed Nuncio, Vatican Ambassador to Washington. They had sat on a few committees together, shared a few dinners. That was when he had first laid out the bare bones of his Reach-Out program. It was still just a glimmer of a dream back then. He had no idea how he would achieve it. But there they were, an African and an African-American, determined to make the world a better place.

  “Everything seemed so possible back then.”

  “And now?”

  The Pope’s handsome face broke into a smile. “As they say, one day at a time. I just wish I could get a little more support closer to home.”

  The Holy Father poured himself a cup of coffee and heaped in his obligatory three teaspoons of sugar.

  “I’ve told you before, you should cut down on that,” Luca nodded towards the sugar dish.

  “One of my few indulgences.”

  “Are you absolutely sure this plan of yours is not an indulgence? I know it’s your dream, but it’s tearing the Church apart.”

  “Sometimes you have to tear down to rebuild.”

  “The Curia and the Bishops hate it.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “They thought that Vatican Two was bad. I won’t put a name to what they think of this.”

  “The Second Vatican Council was about progress. Reach-Out continues where it left off.”

  “There are those who see it as a direct threat.”

  “Don’t be too hard on them, Luca. They have been brought up to think in a certain way. They joined a Church that thought in that same way. Now we are asking them to open their minds to a new way of thinking, and they’re afraid. They will come around, eventually.”

  Luca shook his head. “In a generation or two.”

  “The fact remains we have to move forward. How can we expect those on the extremes of our faith to turn away from violence when we still have so much division at the center. Can we look at the world, seemingly more divided than ever, and tell ourselves that the path to God is some kind of exclusive club, that it is not enough to live a good and honest life, to love and respect all God’s creatures? I believe God has brought us to this point to challenge us. The Bible predicts it. The prophecy is there, though most have twisted and contorted its words.”

  Luca regarded the Pontiff. “Which is why you must take great care.”

  “My dear friend, the challenge is clear. It is staring us in the face. Instead of barely acknowledging that the other exists, it is time for all the faiths to recognize within their ministries and publicly, that there is more than one path to God, and people are free to choose which serves them best. Just because you are not in our club does not mean you will burn in hell or should be slaughtered as a non-believer. Each religion thinks it is the best path, fine, that’s the way it should be. But we have to acknowledge that it is not the only way. It is faith that is important, faith in God.”

  Luca took a sip of the Holy Father’s excellent wine. “I seem to remember something about,

  I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one gets to the Father but through me.”

  Salus smiled. “I also remember,

  Here there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all.

  “I like to think a modern interpretation would be ‘Reach him through faith in God,’ not necessarily through the Church, or at least not one Church in particular.”

  “There you go, and you expect them to like it.”

  “How can we expect people to accept each other’s differences and learn to live in peace together when we in the major religious bodies can’t even do this one simple thing?”

  “Simple but almost impossible.”

  “I’ve studied the Qu’ran. I have deep respect for it. Same with the Torah. They all speak God’s word. That’s what is important. But while we seek to unite, there will always be those who seek to divide. For some, it’s because they are afraid and cling to what they know. But for others, it is because division exposes weakness - weakness they can exploit. For the first ones, we can bring them around by showing them the way. But the latter, now that is the real battle we must fight.”

  Luca looked up from staring into his wine glass. “Which brings me to something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Should I be nervous?”

  Luca gave him a tight smile. “You got my note about Brother Thomas.”

  “Yes,” the Holy Father shook his head. “Very sad. I have been praying for him. Poor Thomas, he spent his whole life searching. I wish he could have found what he was looking for.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  The Holy Father raised his eyebrows.

  “He sent you a letter, well, he sent it via me.” Luca took out an envelope and pushed it across the table. “It arrived while you were away.”

  Pope Salus took out the note inside and read it. He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “Dear Thomas, each time he would be convinced he had the answer, then it would turn out to be nothing.”

  “That’s what I thought until he died, two days after sending that.”

  The Holy Father shrugged. “Coincidence? A tragic but normal set of events?”

  “I sent Joseph to find out.”

  “I was right to be nervous.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  The Holy Father shook his head. “I worry about him. He is still in a delicate state.”

  “He’s strong as an ox.”

  “You know what I mean. The work in Africa keeps him focused, allows him to get used to his new self.”

  “It’s who he always was. He j
ust has to learn to let it out again. He has to learn to trust himself.”

  “I worry that something like this could—”

  Luca didn’t give the Holy Father time to finish. “We had little choice. We have to know about this. Maybe it’s nothing, but maybe it’s everything.”

  “Did you tell him about the letter from Thomas?”

  He took another sip of his wine and shook his head. “I wanted him to have an independent view of things. I didn’t want to cloud his thinking. I’m relying on him to be what he is.”

  The Holy Father lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.

  Luca gave a wry smile. “You know Joseph. He’s like a dog with a bone. And once he gets a sniff, he will never let go.”

  5

  Paris, France.

  Allahu Akbar.

  The tones resonated through the buildings and across the tiled rooftops, echoing with the voices of the faithful as they knelt on their prayer mats, touching the cool cobbles of the square with their foreheads. The prayers continued, flowing out from the speaker, fastened high up on the wall of the makeshift mosque. There was no room inside so the faithful overflowed into the square, kneeling here on the cobbles.

  Ali leaned back on his heels, happy with the peace he felt inside him, the peace he always felt when he was close to Allah. The morning was chilly as noon approached, but the sun in a bright blue sky gave a sharp crispness to the day. He glanced to his side, down the thoroughfare that ran into the city and down to the river. He caught a glimpse of the iconic structure, appearing to shimmer in the far distance, an icon representing a world seemingly a million miles away from where he knelt. He returned to his prayers allowing the image to slip away - the icon they called the Eiffel Tower.