The Perfect Sun

by Brendan Carroll

  He stumbled to his hands and knees, crawling and then running as fast as his legs would carry him away from the dream, away from the horror. He heard himself screaming, and then he was flying again, head over heels. He slammed against the stone and rolled painfully a few turns before coming to rest on his back, arms and legs splayed, breath gone from his body again. This second blow brought more coherent thoughts to his mind. Wherever he was, he was not asleep. Not unconscious and not dead. The nightmare was over. He lay gasping for breath, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.

  The last thing he remembered was riding behind the Grand Master. His horse had gone down, and then d’Brouchart had appeared from nowhere, yanking him bodily from the desert floor onto the back of his horse. Then, they had ridden hard and fast. He remembered the others. Mounted knights, soldiers, shouts. Stopping. Starting again. The creature! The horrible creature had chased him through the night. The terrible thirst, his parched throat, and hunger, he was famished and then… the fall.

  But now, mercifully, he felt no pain other than the most recent bumps and bruises he had inflicted on himself in his panicked flight. The stone was cool against his back. He no longer felt thirsty or hungry. The burning sensation in his face and lips was gone. He raised his hand to his face and found the long beard he had worn for months was gone. His face was smooth shaven, almost soft to the touch. He sat up quickly and ran his fingers through his hair. It was no longer a tangled mass hanging on his shoulders, but cut close to his head, the way he liked to wear it. Clean and soft to the touch as well. He looked at his hands. The cuts and bruises and calluses formed by the leather reins were gone. His hands were clean and smooth; his fingernails neatly trimmed, not dirty and broken. And his clothes. His black uniform was pristinely clean, sharply pressed with plenty of starch, just like he loved. Even his combat boots, formerly worn and tattered were shining black, polished, the laces new and whole, not pieced together knotted and made of different materials.

  Christopher exclaimed something incomprehensible and leapt to his feet. He turned and ran back in the direction from which he had come. Again, he went flying and landed hard, but this time he caught himself and got up more slowly. He found the object over which he had stumbled and was sickened to see the twisted corpse of a horse. He stumbled back from its lifeless eyes and then looked up, searching for the source of the light. Three white orbs glowed high over his head. The light was similar to that given off by the full moon.

  “Master!!” He shouted as he walked more carefully. His voice echoed endlessly.

  “Lavon!!” He shouted again and then covered his ears as the two names crisscrossed each other in the vast chamber.

  “Over here,” a muffled voice answered him after a few moments. He turned toward the sound and found Dan d’Ornan sitting on the floor with a dead soldier in his lap. The man’s neck was obviously snapped.

  Christopher helped the apprentice to his feet and checked him over. Dan was remarkably in the same condition as the Knight of the Holy City: well and clean. No longer sporting his braided beard or his silky blonde locks crusted with desert grime.

  They inspected the soldier, but there was nothing to be done for him. They were trying to decide the best course of action when scuffling, scrabbling noises, along with muffled groans and voices indicated they were not alone. The two started off together in search of the owners of the voices in the murky, dim surroundings.

  “Wait,” Dan said, stopped and scooped something from the floor.

  “What is that?” Christopher frowned at the object in Dan’s hand.

  “It’s a letter!” Dan said excitedly. “Addressed to me! Look. Judas Dan d’Ornan, son of the Mystic Healer. That’s me!”

  “Hey! Judas Dan, son of the Mystic Healer! Get over hear and help me, will you?” The angry voice of Zeb or Philip, it was hard to tell which in the echoing chamber, called to them.

  Dan dropped the letter on the floor and ran toward his brother, leapfrogging over another of the dead horses in his path.

  Christopher scooped up the stark white envelope and ran his finger over the deeply imprinted, beautifully scrolling script. This did not bode well. He heard the voices of Luke Matthew and Lavon de Bleu and started off in a different direction. On his way, he found three more envelopes lying scattered about the floor. All of them addressed to different members of the Order. All of them written in the same elegant hand. Before he could locate either of them, he heard someone unmistakably trying to kill someone else with their bare hands. Christopher stuffed the envelopes carelessly in his jacket pocket and ran toward the sound of the altercation. And, again, he found himself flying through the air, head over heels. He landed on his back again and lay motionless, staring up at the white orbs for the third time, wondering what the hell was going on. He’d tripped over another of the dead horses, but this time he knew what had happened. The fight was progressing and there were many echoing shouts now. The chamber was filled with angry voices, most all of them recognizable. He was up and running again, pulling his dagger as he went, zigging and zagging back and forth, trying to find the right direction. A feeling of relief washed over him as he realized whatever their condition, however they had gotten here, they still had some weapons left to them.

  The combatants turned out to be Ernst Schweikert, a Fox sergeant, Simon of Grenoble and Louis Champlain. The King of all the Franks was tossing the unfortunate Schweikert aside as if he were a child, the Fox sergeant, the only one of the original party of five who had survived the fall, was trying to save his general from the assault. Louis turned and picked up the sergeant bodily, raising him screaming into the air. Simon who had apparently been beneath the general, scrambled to his feet and ran after Ernst when he rolled across the floor, crashing into numerous feet and legs, coming to rest against one of the dead horses.

  The bizarre nature of their situation made Christopher’s mind threaten to fold in on itself as one of his former Master’s sayings came back to him ‘Nevar beat a dead ’orse, laddie.’ ‘Live and let live.’ ‘Grudges are for imbeciles and Papists.’ ‘Nevar, evar take a woman ’oo can look ye in th’ eye.’ ‘Stay lost until someone finds you.’ Why he thought of these things was beyond his imagination. It seemed they were all doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over, and his Master, who had so wisely taught him these sayings, had never followed his own advice.

  Simon leapt after the downed general, who was only just attempting to get up. They went rolling across the floor. The din was deafening as the echoed shouts built into an earsplitting crescendo. Louis went after Simon. The Healer’s temper was legendary. He was kind and gentle and most of his sons were half again his size, but when he lost control, he was unstoppable. Several of his sons were helping Louis as he tried to save the general from murder.

  D’Brouchart made his way through the tussling crowd and tried to insert himself between his son and the Fox General. Simon was determined to crawl over his father and everyone else to get to Schweikert when they were all blinded by a brilliant blue light. The flash virtually blinded them and everyone fell quiet as they shielded their eyes from the glare. When the lingering echoes died and only confused murmurs remained, they were able to discern the source of the light which began to fade rapidly.

  “Lo, I bring glad tidings of great joy!” Lucifer’s clear voice rang out in the silence, but did not echo. “For unto you is born this day a Savior which shall be named Michael Emmanuel. And this shall be a sign unto you and a testament. You will find the child lying in a manger. Glory be to God on high! Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest!”

  Chapter Seven of Sixteen

  Shall he that contendeth with the Almighty instruct him?

  “Father, forgive me for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession,” Cardinal Paolo Gambrelli began the age old standard plea for compassion, penance and forgiveness. He confessed to no one. He dared not confess his sins even to a fellow Cardinal, but he fe
lt compelled to confess simply because it was a part of his life. Something he could not give up, something that had always brought comfort to him in his darkest hours. At least, it had always brought peace until now. He had been confessing in the privacy of his rooms for two weeks and each time the result was the same. Depression. Despair. Death and destruction. These were the images that filled his mind when he tried to pray. He had skipped a day and nothing had changed. Today the compulsion to confess, to be absolved of this great horror, had begun even before he had awakened. He remembered calling upon the Father over and over in his dreams and receiving no word of acknowledgment. God had truly abandoned him, and he needed to regain His Divine Favor.

  Paolo Gambrelli was educated in the mystic arts. He had made his lifelong specialty the study of obscure documents found in the secret vaults strewn throughout Vatican City. He was allowed access to the key to all the doors. An honor. A privilege shared by very few. He had resources. He had alternatives to prayer. He could not only supplicate the Creator, he could invoke Him. He could demand the Divine Presence… if he had the courage and the intestinal fortitude to do so… anytime he wished. Anytime he wished and that time was rapidly growing nearer in his imagination. He saw himself going down to the secret room. To that little place he had carved out for himself amidst the stacks of hand-copied manuscripts, scrolls, tablets and texts. In a dark corner of one of the lesser scriptoria, long disused, smelling of mold and decay, but now sealed against the destructive humidity by an elaborate hi-tech environmental control system. Half of the energy expended by Vatican City was used to maintain the system which preserved the ancient texts and artifacts from the destructive effects of the Italian weather. It had always pained him to see the ruin wrought upon the priceless relics brought here from the drier climates in the Holy Lands by over-zealous crusaders in centuries past. But there was nothing he could do about all that. And very soon it would become profitless to linger over the tomes, studying the fragmented works of ancient scholars. Soon, he would have the most powerful object ever bestowed upon humankind. Plans were progressing for the last crusade. They would go once more into the Holy Lands and bring back the treasure that had eluded the Church for such a long time.

  How elated he had been to learn the cursed Templars had not had destroyed the Ark as they had threatened to do. How wonderful he had felt when God had granted him a vision of where the Holy Treasure could be found. Oh, the Templars had come very close to it, but in the end, God had made the final decision. They had been caught by the flood, forced into the mountains and ultimately foiled in their absurd plan. He, Paolo Gambrelli, had seen it all in his visions.

  How he had tried to explain it all to John Paul. He had really tried, but John had been old and feeble, alive past his time. These had been the Pope’s own words. He had confessed his cowardice and claimed to live only because he was afraid to die! The Pope, God’s ambassador on earth, had failed in his duties to the Most High; had turned his back on God, Himself. Gambrelli shuddered at the memory of John Paul’s last informal confession made on the night of his… demise. John Paul had lost the faith, and he had wanted Paolo to give up the quest of his lifetime. How could John have asked him to give up his whole purpose for living? And the confession of love for himself and his imagined mother? The thought sickened and frightened him even now, two weeks later. Surely God understood why John had to die. It was time and it had been God directing Paolo to do the deed. God had caused the Pope to speak his darkest thoughts and secrets to Paolo in order to lighten the burden. And now, Paolo knew it was simply his own feelings of guilt for having murdered the old man keeping him awake at night, not the condemnation of God.

  He had accomplished God’s will. The Father would not punish the son for doing what he was told. Gambrelli knew this to be true because another of his studies in Seminary had been the fall of Judas Iscariot. He had chosen this unfortunate disciple for his thesis simply because he had not understood why Judas had been persecuted and scorned and driven to suicide for doing what God ordained him to do. Even Jesus had known from the start Judas would betray him. Gambrelli had always thought it a sort of contradiction to the saving principal of Grace. How could Judas have avoided his fate? Had Judas been condemned from before birth? If so, how could it have been so, if God was a loving and forgiving Father? But then God was also a jealous and vengeful Father, was he not?

  Gambrelli was unable to concentrate on his prayers as these thoughts flitted about in his head. His thesis had been perfect. His presentation and defense of it had been exceptional, convincing, passionate and well documented. He had proof Judas might have been forgiven and allowed to escape the fires of Hell by doing the appropriate penance in Purgatory for his petty sins. His suicide had been his only unforgivable crime, his only mortal sin according to the Church. The betrayal of Christ had been his divinely appointed destiny. His suicide, on the other hand, had been the product of his imperfect reasoning. Judas could not believe he could be forgiven, could not forgive himself.

  But they had rejected his thesis! The failure had stained his reputation for years. He’d been forced to choose another disciple or subject of a more acceptable nature. Acceptable nature. Who were they to decide what was acceptable? He knew now why God had led him to study Judas Iscariot. It was simply preparation for his own Divine Destiny. It was all very clear to him. He had only to shake the same depression and sense of guilt that had led Judas Iscariot to make his final mistake. No, Paolo Gambrelli would not follow Judas to Hell. He would defeat the demons that had haunted and tormented the disciple into an early grave. Not only would he defeat these demons, he would evoke God and demand an audience. Was he not a man equal to Job? Had he not pleased God? If Job had succeeded in calling God into account, then he, Paolo, would do the same. He had done the Will of God and now he would demand his reward. Tomorrow he would receive the mitre of the office of Pope. Tonight he would have a little tête-à-tête with God. A sort of preparatory meeting. If he was to become the liaison between God and man, then it was time to have a preview of what the ultimate Holy Communion was like.

  His thoughts had become jumbled, and he had to have a clear head. The death of John Paul could not interfere with his plans, nor could it be allowed to disrupt his sleep and his thoughts during the day. If he was to be the Pope who returned the world to God, he would need every faculty of his being in tip top working order, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He could not afford to be slack, could not afford to allow his mind to slip for even a second. And he did not worry that such a burden would destroy him or lead him to an early grave. God would take care of him and preserve him. All he had to do was exorcise the demons controlling his dreams and his subconscious mind. This was what he would demand of God in return for his unwavering service. God had rewarded Job for such service. God would reward him. Simple. Reasonable.

  He got up from the floor and snuffed the candles on his private altar. The rich, heady smell of frankincense and myrrh filled the private chapel and followed him out to his sitting room. His barber was waiting on him and his vestments lay on the bed, waiting for him to don. The deceased Pope’s personal valet stood by to attend him. Already, they were treating him as he deserved and the coronation had not yet taken place. The valet eyed him darkly and the Cardinal determined at that moment to replace him immediately. He was too old anyway to be a valet. He needed a younger man, someone with more energy, someone more beautiful to attend him, yes, yes, someone more pleasing to the eye. There were plenty of candidates to choose from. The barber waited patiently for him to take a seat and then applied hot lather to his face and warm towels to his neck. He was going to miss this while he was away on campaign, but such suffering would only make his triumphant homecoming even more delicious. He would be the youngest Pope ever placed in office, which would make him, most likely, the longest termed Pope in history if he lived as long as his predecessor. The things he could do with such an extended reign were mind-boggling.

  “I wi
ll not be needing those robes, Greco,” he said as the barber began to massage his scalp. “I will be going downstairs after breakfast… alone. Please find something more suitable for dusty work.”

  “You will be preparing for the coronation, your grace?” Greco shot a doubting look at the Cardinal. He had never liked the intimacy this one enjoyed with his former master.

  “Yes, you might say that, my son.” Paolo waved one hand in dismissal. “One of my old white suits would be best.”

  “But… forgive me, your eminence, would it not be best to dress in something dark? Something less likely to show the grime? What will the others think if they see you all covered with filth? Would they not take it as an ill omen?”

  “Do you believe in omens, Greco?” Gambrelli raised one eyebrow. “You must remember I am very different from our dearly departed Holy Father John Paul. It was he and not I, who put such store into the doings of crows and black cats. I like to think God speaks to us in more profound ways than through such mundane objects. These things are merely superstitions. Dear John was a product of his raising, I suppose. The Scriptures clearly speak against seeking signs and portents in the world. We must look to the Heavens for our inspiration. Today, I am inspired to wear white in order to show my purity of purpose. If I become soiled it will be only by the outer workings of this world that it is so, and it will be easily brushed off just as the machinations of demons and devils, who work to win our souls to darkness. They may stain our outer garments, Greco, but it is the inner garment we receive from God that matters.”

  Greco did not answer these remarks, but bowed his head slightly before returning to the Cardinal’s closet in search of a white suit. It was not summertime. The wind outside blew cold across the cobbles and paving stones, just like the wind of change blew cold across Greco’s heart. Gambrelli had something up his long sleeve and Greco knew his days as chief valet were numbered. But as with all things, this too was subject to change. He would retire quietly to the valleys of Northern Italy if permitted and soon join his beloved Pope John in the afterlife.