‘Many things are beautiful when you walk in lonely places – the desert, the mountains, and yes, the stars. The stars are worth watching, being points of light from afar. Simple beauty.’
‘They fill your soul? Do they give you ideas?’ My tone is calmer now, more measured. ‘Are we to go back to simplicity? Is that what you advocate as a profession? Is that what you counsel? Too much complexity in the way in which we serve the God who loves us? Yes, that would make sense. The kings were symbolic of politics, wealth, all the complicated aspects of life, while men like you . . .’
‘Can I go now? My goats? I need to get back to the boy.’
I try to interview the man further, but he becomes agitated and upset, so eventually I call for my assistant. He takes the goatherd away and I imagine the man will be transported back to where he came from.
Am I any nearer to an answer? I think not. I have visions of shepherds on hills, on plains, drawing their schemes, waiting, waiting for just the right time to strike. Those earlier bishops and cardinals, those earlier popes, could not all have been wrong in suspecting a plot. Or perhaps not so much a plot as an influence, a curb against extremes? Their very presence is a threat to us. All they have to do is be there, sheltering under rockhangs, standing there, watching, watching.
We priests, we clergy, have called ourselves shepherds, yet we are nothing like those people of the hill and plain. We eat well, indulge ourselves, grow fat and lazy, adoring our beds. Some of us, like the Borgias, have actually been degenerates. They? They are like gentle beasts. They eat when they can, sleep with one eye open, walk thousands of miles, have desperately few possessions, preach to no man, keep their own counsel. Why do they live such a harsh and unrewarding existence? Surely because they have expectations for the future. They must be planning something? All those decades, those centuries!
But what can we do? I can’t force any of them to tell me what they want, what they’re planning. No government will bring out a law, banning the profession of shepherd. There isn’t even anything immoral or unseemly in the work. It is a spiritually clean, physical way of spending one’s time, admired by those who love the outdoors. Poets have produced endless verses on pastoral life. Shepherds are most likely poets themselves, though perhaps they produce not a single written word. Certainly they have aroused no suspicion in the general body of humankind. Only the Church has its misgivings – rightly so in my opinion – and believes there is more to them than just tending sheep, goats and other livestock. We think them dangerous, but would have a very hard time convincing others of our scepticism.
There is one thing we can do.
We can watch the watchers.
I take my quill in hand and dip it in the inkpot.
To Juan Cardinal Candido
Your Eminence:
You will recall the task you set me this last year. I have done all I can over the twelve months to discover the thoughts of those we suspect of scrutiny. The result is poor and I am ashamed to say I have very little new to offer beyond those texts which fill the manuscripts and documents of the priests who went before me. However, God has revealed to me one recommendation. There are those of us who work in remote areas, tending shrines and chapels in out of the way places, often far from civilisation. I would suggest recruiting some of those priests and using them to infiltrate the ranks of the watchers. Send them out into the hills and valleys with their own herds, to report back within a decade or two on what they uncover in their guise as shepherds. This is the best I can do. Although I have a safe and comfortable position here, in the Vatican, I shall be one of the first to volunteer for this mission. I am ready to lay down my life to discover the secret of their silence and watchfulness that has dogged our concern over the millennia.
Bishop Peter Spinoza on this Seventh Day of Our Lord, July
1771.
Ω
An addendum to this report says that Bishop Spinoza was indeed sent out with a handful of priests into the hills of Armenia not long after this paper was written. The group was never to be heard of again.
Other records linked to this account indicate concern about a deep-seated strain of scopophobia among elements of the priesthood at the time. The belief seems to have been that there were men ‘out there in the wilderness’ intent on keeping the Church under close scrutiny, but for what reason and whether with a positive or a negative motivation, no one seemed prepared to speculate.
Bishop Spinoza appears to be the only prelate, along with his assistants, who actually attempted to watch the watchers.
1779
History tells us that Captain James Cook died on 14 February 1779 on the beach of Kealakekua Bay, on the island of Hawaii. He was struck on the head by one of the islanders, fell on his face in the surf, and was then stabbed to death.
In the Vaults of the Vatican Library a file containing a number of torn and stained pages appears to tell a different story. Handwriting experts have compared these pages with known examples of Captain Cook’s writing and confirm ‘a close similarity, though the difficult circumstances in which these entries seem to have been written, sometimes clearly in a very hurried way, mean that identification cannot be absolutely confirmed’.
That is normal scholarly caution. If these pages were, as seems more than likely, penned by Captain Cook, then it is obvious why they have been hidden away for two centuries.
The Missing Journal of Captain James Cook
Geraldine Warner
This ripped page appears to be a continuation of the journal of Captain James Cook, and dates from the afternoon of Sunday, 17 January 1779.
Little did I suspect upon waking this morning that by nightfall I would have paid homage to foreign gods!
At the third hour, Touahah conducted me to the temple on O’why’ge, along with Mr King and several natives. Given to believe we were to witness some manner of sacred ritual, and curious as to the customs of the islanders, I interrogated my guide, a priest of the native Church, as we traversed the beach.
As Touahah described the local deities Lono and Ku, I freely admit that my heart skipped a beat. Lono, Lord of Peace, Rain and Agriculture, rules over the Peoples between October and January. Touahah explained that we are fast approaching the end of that same month, when Lono must surrender his ascendancy to his brother Ku, the God of War. Ku in his turn rules until September, from which point the whole cosmic dance begins again. Although shaken for a moment by Touahah’s tale, Good Sense prevailed, and gradually the heaving in my chest abated. Indeed, on approaching the temple structure, named heiau by the Islanders, I remember envying these people the simplicity of their lives and beliefs.
The Hawaiians bade my companions remain outside the wooden palings surrounding the platform. I, however, was encouraged by another priest, Koah, to enter the sacred space, then to descend to some manner of underground chamber. Although this dank place had the Appearance of a Tomb I was eager not to give offence, and complied.
Immediately upon entering I saw a gigantic Warrior before me, wielding a mace, with skin that burned like fire. In his mouth was a severed human arm. I am not ashamed to say that I started violently, but once my eyes adjusted to the shadowy crypt I realised that my challenger did not consist of flesh and blood, but of metal. Closer inspection caused me to suspect he was fashioned from pure Gold.
‘Can you see Ku burning with the souls he has slain?’ Koah asked me, before throwing himself headlong before the Statue.
My Logic smirked inwardly at this, but there was a smouldering ember within my Imagination that looked at the Graven Image and shuddered assent to Koah’s question. Sensitive to the honour the Islanders were bestowing by inviting me into the heart of their holy place, I followed his example in appeasing the monstrosity. Thus it was that I made prostrate before the mighty Ku.
Immediately an exotic and scented air descended from the North, and I was given to believe that Ku was pleased with my offering. For my own part, however, my revulsion as my lips touched the m
onster’s feet sent a shiver deep through my bowels.
My Humour after this ungodly event was such that on return to my ship I was struck with an unexpected Melancholy, and was therefore disinclined to discharge my Account of today’s strange experiences. It is only Lady Habit that keeps the pen presently in my hand.
Monday, 18 January. Variable light airs from SW in the first part, latterly Calm till 4 p.m. and a gentle breeze to the South.
Still gripped by Melancholy, I charged Mr King with the administration of the Resolution, and took to my berth. Today passed without event, save for the presence of certain unaccustomed words and images that keep pervading my consciousness, borne to me as if by the Wind. Kai-Kai-Kai sang the breeze, and with this my heart was eased.
Tuesday, 19 January. Squally rain, followed by Easterly Storms.
At first light Touahah again led our party to the heiau, but informed me that on this occasion certain Preparations were necessary before I could enter. He instructed us to wait outside the palings, and disappeared into the trees. My men meanwhile constructed a crude shelter on the beach, from which they could observe the day’s proceedings. I was flattered by their concern for my safety.
Several natives came to sit by the temple, some carrying livestock in their arms. On hearing the sound of squeals and grunts I noticed that the animals were pigs, restrained by means of heavy chains. The villagers maintained their distance, and made no efforts to communicate with us.
Touahah returned holding a length of bamboo, a nail and a cloth of woven hemp. He insisted I sit on the ground and remove my jacket. I wish now that I had not slavishly heeded my fear of giving offence, but I did as he asked, even rolling up my Shirt-Sleeve when requested. He took a phial of dark liquid from his Costume, and inserted into the bamboo tube both the nail and a measure of the liquid, a sticky, vile-smelling substance. I realised he intended to mark my skin with this contraption, but nevertheless let him fulfil his Purpose. Whether I was concerned that my fears might infect my Crew, or believed that a Tattoo might strengthen my bonds of comradeship with them, I know not.
Touahah ministered to me carefully, and wiped my blood with his cloth as he progressed. The process was not painful as I initially feared, not that I would have shown distress before my men. The design growing on my forearm was small and simple: an Ear of wheat, fashioned in black and gold. I feared it was to become a whole field, but Touahah seemed satisfied with one simple stalk, and put away his tools with calmness and precision.
I was now permitted to enter the sacred space. The natives went with us, striking up a rhythmic chanting, and I was invited to honour Lono’s departure and Ku’s arrival by imbibing copious amounts of Kava. I by no means find this drink disagreeable, tending as it does to bring on most exquisite Dreams and Visions, but on this occasion I discovered myself severely disinclined to offer service to Ku in this way. Only regard for my hosts enabled me to force the noxious Liquid down my Gullet.
Whether it was partaking of this opiate substance, or the subsequent sacrifice of the chained Pigs, slaughtered by means of long metal stakes, I know not, but as the chants became masked by squeals, I found myself somewhat distanced from my Inner Self, as if the Pigs-Blood, now splashing so liberally into the gullies around me, was imparting to me a new Spirit. Indeed, the change was such that the Natives saw fit to make prostrate before me, and for an instant I considered it as my birthright to be treated with such adulation.
As my heart soared amidst the heavens, the Islanders conversely descended into base frenzy, thrusting their hands into the scarlet river now running awash around me, anointing me with the sticky substance and thereby . . . senseless though it is, the only words I see fit to record here in this journal are imbuing me with strength. The Experience cannot otherwise be expressed. Smeared now with blood, I felt myself thrown into an Ecstasy, all at one with land, vegetation and Elemental forces. I swear that had I at that moment bade the rain stop it would have obeyed me. Not that I would have had it stop, for never have I drawn so much pleasure and strength from the sensation of heavenly waters refreshing my skin, each droplet visiting manifold pleasures upon me.
My ears then alighted on the sounds surrounding me, and I became cognisant of the cacophony giving way to melody, incanted by first one voice, then several, until the air was filled with the chorus of a single word, Kaikilani. Thus my joy became complete. I whispered her name, for I was now convinced that this was a She, and the cadence of the syllables seemed to exceed the output of the greatest Italian masters in Beauty. I was thus doubly unprepared for the sudden piercing of pain, bitter as my recent pleasures were sweet, that penetrated my consciousness in the very next instant. On uttering her name again, Kai-Ki-La-Ni, I discovered to my cost that to declare it a second time was to be thrown into the very Furnaces of Hell.
By now bloody and distressed, I was of a mind to return to my ship that very instant, and only an anxious Touahah restrained me. I resented his impertinence in so doing, and being Superior to him in stature believe I might have overcome him had not bonds of propriety held me back. He was desirous of me to await the King, a certain Kalani’opu’u, presently delayed on his return from a sea voyage, who wished to confer on me a ceremonial blessing. I sat upon the beach, and there attempted to regulate my Humours to an ‘even keel’.
Imagine my joy when I discovered that the Kalani’opu’u whom Touahah eventually led over the beach to greet me was the selfsame Terryboo I knew from my outbound journey.
‘Terryboo. Or should I call you Kalani’opu’u?’ I quipped to my newly rediscovered friend, drawing him close to my breast.
‘Captain Cook. Or should I call you Lono?’ he countered. I might have expected to feel discomfort at his reference to the day’s Events, for I am a modest man, but instead I smiled warmly.
‘Lono, if you will,’ I laughed. ‘I scarcely have one more month of divinity left to me, and am determined to enjoy it while it lasts.’
I wondered whether I had exceeded my bounds in addressing a King thus. However Kalani’opu’u merely bowed in recognition, and departed.
On my return to the ship I discovered a certain aloofness at large amidst my men. Those in the observation tents had doubtless espied the strange proceedings of the day. However, they seemed loathe to talk of their impressions in my presence, despite my pressing them to that purpose. The crew left Caulking aboard ship that day evidently were also party to the day’s events, for I distinctly heard the syllables Kai-Ki-La-Ni hissed behind my back on several occasions, in tones of mockery and spite. Or perhaps it was fear that informed their behaviour. I hesitate to write this, and know not if my impressions are induced by an excess of the Kava still awash in my system, but when the natives prostrated themselves this After Noon I swear I detected Worship in their countenances, not as men playing their part in a Ritual, but . . . a thousand times no. I cannot finish the thought. It rails against Heaven and all that is Holy. I shall repair to my berth, and may God grant me sweet repose.
Wednesday, 20 January. Inclement.
My dreams were once more haunted by Kaikilani, and I awoke with grief and regret in my heart. I called upon my first Lieutenant to take command of the ship, and took a boat to a secluded part of the bay. Although fully clothed, I lay on the beach. The surf washed onto my jacket, but far from causing me discomfort, its cool caress was welcome, feeling as it did like a woman’s touch.
I must have fallen into a reverie, as the next thing I knew was Mr King shaking at my shoulders, and summoning me to the ship to greet a procession of native canoes turned out in my honour. Our passage was impeded by these very boats encircling us. Then, as if in obedience to some silent command, all oars stopped moving, and the islanders bowed low from the waist, even whilst seated in their craft. Their actions pleased me, and sudden shafts of sunshine peered through
[Journal illegible for several paragraphs]
canoes departing under the gathering clouds. Mr King took issue with my actions, preferring that I h
ad been Bound by Protocol whilst greeting kings, especially ones to whom we were indebted by a debt of friendliness. I felt compelled to remind him of the chain of command within my vessel, and place him on menial duties for the remainder of the day. His impertinence displeased me, and thunder
[Illegible]
buried our old companion Seaman William Waltman in the heiau. In the absence of proper consecrated ground this seemed as fitting a place as any, and I took it upon myself to provide some suitable Anglican rites. One of the Islanders added to this a Hawaiian tribute, pleading Ku’s blessing.
I must admit this sat very uneasily with me, although I am somewhat ashamed of my subsequent actions. Irrational though it appears to me now, it seemed this afternoon on the beach that the temple and its fiery god were the sole source of the troubles visited upon us over the last few weeks. I felt a rush of resentment burn within my veins against Ku and all the mishaps he has caused. Filled with fury, I instructed my remaining men to pull down the temple palings, and charged Mr King to use them for firewood. He created a blaze a short distance down the beach. I ordered my men into the chamber underneath the platform and instructed them to thrust Ku’s wooden idols onto the fire, whilst I set to work removing his golden statue from its plinth. Unable to move the statue alone, I entreated the swarthiest among my men to help me topple it. The storm continued to rage, the bolts of lightning alighting on Ku’s mace making it glint as if with real fire. For my own part, the chaos of the storm and the strength of my Affectations were so great that for several moments I almost fancied the statue alive. I suspect I was not alone in my suspicions, but resolute, we stuck to our Task. Twenty minutes’ work sent the War-God crashing to the ground. I half expected repercussions, either from Heaven or from Hell, but the Idol split asunder, and all became still. The storm receded. Even the birdsong, so rich and distinctive in this part of the world, ceased.
Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more Page 29