Beyond The Rainbow

by David Forrest

  Had there been a prize for the event, it would have gone to Yves d’Arle. He grabbed the Cardinal’s legs, was lifted from the deck, and, for a moment, thought that both he and the holy man were about to be hurtled into the ever-open windows of Josephine’s bedroom. However, with a jerk, the cable supporting them dropped two metres. They swung back over the ark and grounded with a thump on the deck. The Cardinal staggered giddily, then released a clip on the harness across his chest. The wire rope dropped free and was hoisted back up into the helicopter.

  The Cardinal shouted something, but no one heard him over the noise of the rotors. A second figure appeared at the helicopter’s door, seemed to be pushed out, and the Cardinal’s performance was repeated. Catching the second holy man was easier. He was followed by a third. The helicopter rose, hung stationary for a second, then tilted and disappeared from sight beyond the walls of the town, its noise fading into the distance.

  The dust of the village began settling. The saw-chippings and plane shavings curled into dying heaps. Father Benoir ran up the gangplank on to the ark, paused for a second as he examined his visitors, then he stooped and kissed the ring on the Cardinal’s hand.

  The Cardinal stared at something beyond the young priest. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. He pulled his hand away from Father Benoir’s lips and hurriedly made the sign of the cross, then he held his rosary out before him, his hand shaking.

  Father Benoir and the villagers turned. Shuffling grotesquely towards them along the deck was a monster. It waved feathery tentacles, and dribbled a trail of treacly liquid. It seemed to be composed of a mixture of wood-shavings, sawdust, straw, and scraps of paper. It stopped a few feet away from the terrified workers, guarded only by the Cardinal’s rosary.

  The Cardinal’s voice was shrill with fervour. ‘Creation of Satan, in the name of the true Lord God, I command you to return to the abyss of Hell. . .’

  ‘Urgh . . . urghhh,’ groaned the monster. ‘For humanity’s sake, someone help me.’

  ‘Dear Lord...’ breathed Father Benoir. ‘Toto Barbusse.’

  Cardinal Flamini, Papal representative from the Vatican, and his two Bishops, sat in the cool dusk of Father Benoir’s living room.

  They had spent the whole afternoon examining the ark, peering, probing, spying into its deepest recesses. They had talked to, questioned and interrogated the builders. For the past quarter-of-an-hour, they had been sitting in Father Benoir’s house. From the moment they had entered, they had spoken not one word, other than a brief thank you, for the coffee the young priest had made them. Father Benoir had also said nothing.

  ‘The gross extent of such a young cleric’s deception fills me with a great sadness,’ said the Cardinal at last, staring straight at Father Benoir. His French was fluent, although he spoke with a pronounced Italian accent.

  The two Bishops nodded. ‘Gross extent...’ they repeated.

  ‘It is pardonable for a priest to deceive himself, for priests are human. But for a priest knowingly to deceive his parishioners is an unforgivable sin.’

  ‘Deceit? ... There is no deceit here,’ exploded Father Benoir. He returned the Cardinal’s harsh gaze. ‘How, in any way, can the work of the Lord be deceitful?’

  ‘Come, come, man,’ said the Cardinal, curtly. ‘I am no village fool. I am no hayseed to be bamboozled by a meagre education and a few Bible quotations. Deceit? The work of the Lord, as you say, is not deceitful, but a man of the cloth, who brings false promises to others, to provide himself with notoriety, and all in the name of the Lord, is indeed the hateful personification of the word deceit, and I am filled with utter loathing for such a man.’

  ‘Then it is not I of whom you speak, your Eminence,’ said Father Benoir, softly. ‘I am in no way guilty of such a crime.’ The Cardinal took a deep breath before he answered. ‘Were it true, Brother Benoir ... were it only true.’ He leant forward in his chair. ‘Do you know what is happening as a result of this foolishness? ‘

  ‘I have seen the people out there,’ replied Father Benoir defensively.

  One of the Bishops shook his head. ‘The boy has seen the people out there,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. The Cardinal glanced at him, then stared again at Father Benoir.

  ‘Out there . . . just a few hundred metres from this room, is a hell which you have created. A hell which was born in the childish and deluded mind of a member of our Church. Out there are more than a quarter-of-a-million of God’s souls. They stand there without shelter, without food. Only God’s mercy can assist them. Already there is sickness. There have been deaths. How much more sickness, death and sorrow will your foolishness cause before it is ended? ‘

  ‘Wicked, wicked . . .’ chorused the two Bishops as though they had rehearsed their role.

  ‘You speak to me as if I have no feelings.’ Father Benoir allowed his eyes to drop a little. He looked at the cross hanging on the Cardinal’s chest. ‘I have no less love for those beyond the gates than I have for those within. I am filled with distress at their fate. Do you not think that I would wish myself unborn rather than be the bearer of such a weight of sadness? ‘

  ‘Silence!’ snapped the Cardinal. ‘Such hypocrisy . . . this whole business has long ago passed all realms of credulity. Pah ... firstly ... the beginning. A telephone call from God. From God, Father Benoir? ‘

  The two Bishops tutted.

  The Cardinal continued. ‘Need we talk more of the telephone call? Ahhh, and then . . . yes, the miracles ... the proof that you spoke to the Lord. You say a pig on top of a statue. That is a miracle? Oh, come now, Father Benoir . . . That is pantomime! And you had no further communication with the Lord? ‘

  ‘The Heavenly Choir. We all heard it.’

  The Cardinal chuckled drily, and with the corners of his mouth bent downwards. ‘Then let us consider that perhaps you did have a telephone call from God. Let us imagine that pigs on top of statues are indeed miracles. And that the entire village was not induced into believing they heard Heavenly music. Tell me, Father Benoir, bearing in mind the sins of pride and vanity, cannot you think of even one other man who would not be better qualified as God’s chosen, than yourself?’

  Father Benoir blushed.

  ‘Then let me suggest for you,’ said Cardinal Flamini. ‘The Pope, Father Benoir. His Holiness, our worldly leader, God’s chosen representative on earth.’

  Father Benoir’s blush deepened. ‘You have not yet posed a question that I have not puzzled over,’ he said. ‘I have searched the depths of my heart for answers. I can only believe that His Dear Holiness, is the chosen of the Church . . . and I. . .’he didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Heretic!’ hissed one of the Bishops.

  The Cardinal relaxed back into the armchair. He placed the tips of his fingers together. His face was completely without expression. ‘Father Benoir, I must speak to you plainly. You are either taking drugs, or you are suffering from a temporary mental disturbance. Either way, I will recommend leniency on the part of His Holiness when he eventually considers your case. I will say this to you - it is not unusual for our church to investigate those who believe they have spoken with God. In some cases they claim to have seen visions, heard thunderous voices, have been plagued and besieged by goblins or angels. Some suffer stigmata. Others feel a healing spirit. We in the hierarchy hear and investigate it all. We read and digest reports. Question witnesses, of which there are always too few. In rare cases, perhaps, there is striking evidence that something out of Heaven has touched us here on earth. And even then, it may take a hundred years for it to be recognized by our Church.

  ‘Then, there are cases where the pious and celibate life has in itself created nocturnal fantasies mistakenly identified as visions of the Lord.’ Cardinal Flamini paused. ‘Perhaps, even at your age, such pressures exist.’

  The two Bishops tutted again.

  ‘The damage is done, Father Benoir,’ said the Cardinal. ‘Our people are suffering. I am here to try to end the misery which h
as been caused by your foolishness. And, when it is ended, I will strongly recommend . . .’

  ‘Insist ….’ muttered a Bishop.

  ‘Yes, insist, that you leave the services of the Church, or be transferred to the peace and solitude of a monastery where there will be those qualified to treat you.’

  Father Benoir felt cold inside his stomach. He was filled with an anger he had never previously encountered. He no longer blushed. His face was white. He pushed himself out of his chair.

  His spectacles fell from his nose and shattered on the tiled surround of his fire. He quivered. ‘Your Eminence,’ his voice quavered. ‘You are here in my village as guests. It is right that you should remain here in my house ... the Church’s house. I cannot, will not restrict or restrain you …. you may go where you will. . . but until the fourteenth day of July is passed . . . yes, only forty-eight hours ... then nothing, absolutely nothing will cause me doubt ... or even regret . . .’ He turned away and strode from the room.

  ‘The boy is mad,’ said the Cardinal. ‘Totally insane.’

  ‘And a pot-smoker, no doubt,’ added one of the Bishops.

  Father Benoir leant against the parapet around the high bell tower of his church and watched the sun slowly dropping behind the mountains beyond the town. He felt exhausted, drained by the endless ecclesiastic arguments with the Cardinal and his escorts. He felt sick. He rested his arms on the wall and cradled his head in his hands. As he shut his eyes, he could still hear the monotonous voice of Cardinal Flamini.

  Of course, thought Father Benoir, the Cardinal was quite right about some things. It was true, for instance, that he had not really considered the effect the building of the ark would have on other communities. But had Noah? No, but then communications in Noah’s day were not as they were now. Noah probably had the ark well built and ready to launch, and the day of retribution upon him before the nearest town even heard of his plans. And, too, in those times, there were so many eccentrics, building things . . . pyramids, sphinxs, great statues . . . what was one more strange artefact to the people then?

  I should have considered the attitude of the Church, thought Father Benoir. After all, a priest dedicates himself to the beliefs of his Church ... He accepted, yes, everything. Celibacy. The Trinity. The virgin birth. The war against contraception. There was no doubt, thought Father Benoir, he was a priest, and a priest of the Roman Church. A Pope’s priest.

  Why, then, had he ignored his Church? Why had he not immediately informed them of God’s words to him? Was it, perhaps, because he had known, almost subconsciously, the reaction of his superiors? Was it because he feared their doubt? But why? Why should he have fear of doubts?

  Father Benoir opened his eyes and looked down into the square below. It was near dusk, now. Most of the villagers were at home, having their evening meal. He could see only one shadowy figure still aboard the ark. It would be Claire, sitting on the bow, dreaming, as she often did, with her feet dangling. She’d stay there until he came down from the bell tower. Then she’d try to confess her imagined sins of the day. The priest permitted himself a weak smile.

  Father Benoir stared down at the ark. Strange how darkness altered the shape of things. Only this morning it was a proud ship which heralded a future of adventure and purity in God’s new world. Now, it had the rather ominous and stark lines of a coffin. Strange, it had never looked like a coffin before.

  A tear fell from Father Benoir’s eye. He watched it drop, glistening like a falling star as it caught the last night of the sun on its journey to the cobbles. Then it was gone. Father Benoir turned and made his way down the twisting flight of steps to the church. It was dark inside now that the sun had gone. The great oak doors were closed. He pushed aside the purple velvet curtains of the confessional and lowered himself on to the narrow bench inside.

  ‘Holy Father,’ he began. ‘This is your obedient servant, Father Benoir, the priest of the village of St Pierre-des-Monts. You know,’ he added, just to be certain that God knew who was talking. ‘The one whom you telephoned - about the ark. I have terrible problems of conscience, dear Lord. I wouldn’t have bothered you - I would have talked to the sweet Mary, perhaps even to your Holy Son, but as it was you who telephoned me I felt that I might cause more confusion.

  ‘I met the Cardinal today . . . Cardinal Flamini . . .’ Father Benoir explained the meeting in great detail. ‘And that is the problem. Do I question my Church’s teachings and advice? Is the Church truly yourself? Is the good Pope truly your earthly representative? If he is, then why doesn’t he understand? Or, why didn’t you telephone him? Perhaps you could call him now, just to let him know I have your approval? If not a call to him, perhaps you could tell me that everything is still all right - that you haven’t changed your mind?’

  Father Benoir clutched at his rosary and pulled it through his fingers, his lips moving silently. He stayed in prayer for a full hour before he pushed aside the confessional curtain and stood in the darkness of the church. For the first time in his life, the total emptiness of the place frightened him. It was like a stadium that had suddenly emptied. He clutched his robes tightly round himself, shuddered, and hurried outside.

  His clock had just chimed seven when Father Benoir awoke the next morning. He glanced across the room at the calendar. The date, and indeed the calendar itself, was blurred. Father Benoir felt around for his glasses, remembered that he had broken them the previous afternoon, and climbed out of bed. He stood, his nose only a few inches from the cardboard sheet. July 13, it said. Just one day more before God has vengeance on the world, thought Father Benoir. He felt like a criminal awaiting execution. The next thirty hours would be very, very long.

  He went over to the window, and pushed open the shutters. It was the beginning of a hot day. Although his eyesight was misty, the ark seemed to have been built of burnished gold. Already there were figures moving on its decks. Father Benoir washed in the small handbasin on his chest of drawers, then opened his bedroom door.

  ‘Good morning,’ said a voice. Father Benoir jumped. It was dark on his landing, and the greeting was unexpected. He peered. A figure moved. It was one of the Bishops. He was sitting on a chair beside Father Benoir’s bedroom door. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he apologized. ‘But I have been sitting here all night. Most uncomfortable.’

  ‘You sat here all night? ‘ said Father Benoir, incredulously. ‘Here, outside my door? There was a bed for you upstairs.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the Bishop. ‘It is not how I choose to spend nights at my age. It was the Cardinal’s wish. He wanted me to ... er ... he felt that in your ... er... present condition, someone should be near you . . . er, in order to give you attention if you so needed it ...’

  ‘Attention? Present condition? Nonsense.’ Father Benoir was suddenly horrified. ‘That was not the reason at all. You were here to keep a guard on me. Why? ‘

  ‘Guard? That’s a strange word, Father Benoir. Let me assure you that you are not a prisoner. You are quite free to go anywhere.’ The Bishop’s voice now had a sickly sound to it. ‘We are your friends, Father Benoir. Your true friends. We only wish to help you in your hour of need, as brother churchmen. It pains us that you are sick.’

  ‘Pah,’ grunted Father Benoir. He began to make his way down the stairs. He was conscious of the Bishop rising stiffly from the chair and following him. ‘I’m going to my church,’ he growled over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh,’ said the Bishop, from the convenience of the dark stairway. ‘There was just one other thing. His Eminence, the Cardinal, Bishop Orsolo and myself had a meeting last evening.. Father Benoir paused on the stairs.

  The Bishop continued, firmly. ‘We decided, in the circumstances, for the well-being of ... er... your health ... that you be immediately retired from your duties as priest here.’ Father Benoir tried to see the Bishop’s face in the gloom, but without his glasses it was impossible. ‘You decided?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes. Acting for your own good, natu
rally.’ The Bishop paused. ‘So you see, Father Benoir, there is no need for you to go to the church.’ His voice became wheedling. ‘You are a lucky man. You may go back to bed . . . rest as much as you like. Sit and enjoy a good breakfast . . . read books . . . listen to your radio.’

  The young priest was so furious he could only splutter.

  There was loud knocking at Father Benoir’s front door. Father Benoir, already angry, slammed down the coffee-pot he had just lifted from the stove. ‘Come in,’ he roared. The Bishop, who had been following him everywhere, just two paces behind, clicked his tongue. Father Benoir glowered at him.

  There was a movement in Father Benoir’s hallway. ‘It’s I, Father,’ said the military voice of the Mayor, Colonel Lorraine. ‘May I enter?’

  ‘Of course, of course ... it will be pleasant to have a friend with me for a change.’

  The Colonel entered the room, nervously. ‘We seem to have encountered a little difficulty,’ he said.

  ‘We?’ expostulated Father Benoir. ‘I have spent the last twenty-four hours being insulted, derided, discredited, certified, and finally sacked.’

  ‘Certified? Sacked? ‘ repeated Colonel Lorraine. ‘There was talk from the Cardinal ... of illness, but...’

  ‘They say I’m mad,’ said Father Benoir, simply. ‘And, therefore, for my own good . . .’ he peered in the direction of the Bishop. ‘They have fired me.’

  Colonel Lorraine’s military manner softened. He walked over to the priest and put his arm around his shoulder. ‘My young friend,’ he said. ‘You are not mad. I could be accused of madness, but not you.’

  The Bishop spoke for the first time since Lorraine’s entry. ‘He is suffering from delusions. Quite simply that. Fortunately, it is not too late to help him. He admits his illness . . .’

  ‘A lie,’ roared Father Benoir, jerking himself away from Colonel Lorraine’s arm. ‘Bishop, you’re a liar.’