Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more

by David V. Barrett

  Wednesday, 19 February. Late After Noon.

  Ku proclaims everything finished.

  ‘Come. See,’ he says, and gently releases me from my chains.

  He leads me down into the heiau. After days in the bright sun, all I can see are shadows.

  ‘You destroyed our temple in ignorance brother,’ he says. ‘But I restore it in love.’

  My eyes start to adjust. I make out the contours of a huge statue glowing in the corner, formed from the molten gold.

  ‘I am glad to see you back to your former glory, brother,’ I say. ‘It grieves me that I acted as I did in our sacred temple. I am an ignorant fool.’

  ‘You are no fool,’ he insists. ‘And your spirit is strong. I have grown to enjoy your company.’

  ‘And I yours,’ I reply.

  ‘But I fear we must soon take separate paths. I shall leave you for a short time before our final goodbye. It would perhaps be fitting to document this moment in your journal uninterrupted.’

  ‘Thank you, brother,’ I say.

  I now scribble the account of our final conversation, and hope only that it is legible; the shadows around me hinder my progress. However, my eyes are beginning to adjust. I hear my brother approaching now, but before I cease my writings I shall describe Ku’s statue. It is just as massive as before, but now is missing its mace and hideous severed arm, and this time the skin appears to be made not of flames, but of . . . I can scarcely make it out . . . made . . . of . . . wheat.

  Friday, 1 October

  Were Shakespeare, Chaucer and Dante to combine forces, they would have no words between them to describe the hell I have endured over the last seven months. Who would have believed that a man could long for death so ardently! Even the worship afforded me by my Subjects on my recent ascendancy has not cheered my Spirits. Indeed, since my release I have merely felt irritation at the fickle nature of their prayers, knowing that just two short days ago they were affording my brother the selfsame veneration. My brother. Little did I suspect at the beginning of the year that by autumn I would be capable of feeling such hatred. Enclosed by Ku in that rank, boiling enclosure of my own hollow statue . . .

  [Missing]

  Ω

  From notes in the file written by a Catholic priest, it appears that James King found some torn and stained pages from Cook’s journal lying on the beach, and took them back to Britain in October 1780, by which time he was captaining the Discovery, the Resolution’s consort ship. Over the next few years King completed Cook’s account of the voyage for publication – but without anything from these pages, which he understandably found too rambling and disturbing to include.

  This was at the beginning of Catholic emancipation in Britain. Knowing that the Anglican Church shied away from anything that smacked of the supernatural, King sought advice from a Catholic friend who introduced him to his priest, who agreed the account should not be published, and offered to keep the pages safe. After King’s death in 1784 at the age of only thirty-four, the priest sent the pages to the Vatican.

  Seven years after Cook’s voyage to Hawaii a French frigate visited the islands and found that many of the inhabitants were sick and dying of diseases introduced by Cook’s sailors, particularly tuberculosis and venereal diseases. Perhaps in an attempt to appease their gods by ridding themselves of any link with Cook, the Hawaiian leaders pressed upon the French captain a few weathered and water-stained pages. At some point in the succeeding years these too ended up at the Vatican, where an astute archivist connected them to the earlier pages.

  1814/41

  The USA is no stranger to wild weather. The hurricane of 4 October 1841 was considered one of the most destructive in the early history of the United States, causing more than $2 million in damage (nearly $50 million today) in New York City alone, when the city was still rebuilding from the Great Fire of 1835.

  There was another hurricane over a quarter of a century earlier in the city of Washington, that many believe turned the course of the war against the British.

  This account of the 1814 storm by someone who was at the very centre of it was written just after the 1841 storm, and was sent on to Co-adjutor Bishop John Hughes of New York, a year before he became the city’s first Catholic Archbishop. The last page of the covering letter to Bishop Hughes, including the signature, is missing, but the concerned writer would appear to be a priest at St Peter’s Church on Barclay Street, the oldest Catholic parish in New York State.

  Cooking up a Storm

  Jean Marie Ward

  New York, 6 October 1841

  Right Rev. Sir,

  I regret the necessity of imposing upon your time in the midst of the present crisis. Nevertheless, a situation has arisen in St Peter’s parish which merits your urgent attention.

  This morning after Mass, Mrs Henri Fouchet, one of our most prominent communicants of colour, demanded to speak with me in private. Mrs Fouchet is a widow with three children – a son of fifteen, and two daughters, eighteen and thirteen – all confirmed in the Faith. Upon her husband’s death in the cholera epidemic nine years ago, she took over the management of Fouchet Millinery, a role in which she has enjoyed great success, recently expanding into drapers’ goods. She makes regular donations to the Church and can be relied upon for substantial contributions to special appeals. She is also known for her numerous good works among the Africans of our parish.

  A woman of temperate habits and modest demeanour, she had never before sought preferential treatment for herself or her family. For her to press for an immediate audience would be unusual under any circumstance. For her to require such attention in the wake of the recent gale, in the midst of so much death, injury and ruin, is unthinkable.

  Once in my office, she produced a sheaf of densely written pages from her reticule. She insisted I read them before we addressed the purpose of her visit. Fearing the effects of the storm or its aftermath had disordered her wits, I agreed to look over the document. I was confident a brief examination would allow me to identify the cause of her distress and offer the proper guidance.

  The first line left me sputtering in outrage. I started to protest what I considered an egregious waste of my time.

  She lifted one small, gloved hand and the words fled from my mind. I say that quite literally; it was as if I had lost the power to verbalise thought. I have never experienced anything like it. The strangeness was compounded by the play of light over her pale grey eyes. Her gaze, always startling in a person her complexion, seemed to have acquired an exceptional force and lambency.

  ‘You have to read it all,’ she said. ‘You won’t understand unless you do.’

  Her words carried the force of a compulsion. I resumed reading.

  (I herewith attach the complete document for your perusal.)

  *

  The Testament of Mrs Henri Fouchet

  Mama was a conjure woman.

  I know what you’re thinking. Conjure, gris-gris, voudou – they’re nothing but heathen superstition. I would’ve said the same until that dreadful, scorching day, the twenty-fourth of August, in the year of Our Lord 1814.

  Mr President Madison’s freedman thundered up the drive to the White House steps. His face was grey with road dust. His chest heaved like his poor, lathered horse. ‘Clear out! Clear out!’ he shouted. ‘General Armstrong has ordered a retreat!’

  Ice gathered in my belly, for all I’d been sweating like onions in a pan not moments before. Mama warned me the British were coming. She said her spirits showed her Washington City burning. I hadn’t believed her. I dismissed everything her spirits said as an act of faith. Besides, everybody from Mr President Madison to the Congress and all our generals said our militia would stop those British before they even got close.

  A part of me disbelieved it still. How could her dire foretelling come to pass with the sun shining overhead, and the sky so clear and blue? There should be a storm, a blast of trumpets from on high. But the only sounds were the whimpers of the house girls
standing around me.

  Mrs President Dolley Madison paled under her rouge. Hand to her throat, she turned to scowl at Mama, who like always, stood apart from the rest of the servants and slaves.

  Mama didn’t cringe in fright, or hike her chin defiant-like. She appeared as calm as still waters. You’d have thought the prospect of the British capturing the town and torching it like we had the parliament buildings in Canada troubled her not at all.

  The notion that maybe she did know something – something the rest of us were too staggered to see – gave me a trickle of hope. Not so Miss Dolley. Her glare just about crackled. Her bosom strained against her old grey house dress as she filled her lungs for a proper scolding. But before she could open her mouth, the President’s Master of Ceremonies, John Sioussat, leaned over her shoulder.

  ‘The British will not attempt a forced march in this heat. They will take hours to reach the city – plenty of time to lay a trap.’ His voice sounded huskier than usual. His accent was thicker, too. ‘We can spike the cannons at the gate and lay a trail of powder to the house. That would kill a hundred men and injure far more.’

  Miss Dolley gasped. Her head shake turned to a shudder. ‘They’d be blown to pieces. No. I won’t have it. It’s too horrible.’

  French John lifted a dark eyebrow. ‘It is war.’

  War. Here. Now.

  French John knew war. He’d served four years in the French Navy, and still wore his hair tied back in a sailor’s queue. In the time it had taken the rest of us to gather on the North Steps, he’d found himself a pistol to shove between the buttons of his vest and a sword to strap to his hip. His fine blue coat dragged from his shoulders. Its pockets strained. The bulge in the one closest to me matched the shape of Mr President Madison’s folding razor.

  French John had always been so particular about his appearance. He’d never risk staining his vest with oil and powder, or spoil his coat unless it was an emergency.

  Unless Mama was right.

  My heart raced, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Miss Dolley said. ‘Even in war, some advantages may never be taken. There are lines civilised people cannot cross.’

  ‘If we do not take advantage, Madame, of a certainty the British will. They have promised to destroy the President’s Palace and all the Departments supporting the war. What could be more just, more civilised, than destroying them in the act?’

  ‘You forget yourself, Mr Sioussat. I am mistress here, and as long as I remain Lady President, the President’s House will not be made into a bomb.’

  I sucked my lip between my teeth. Even the crying girls fell silent. Miss Dolley was mistress of the house, but French John was no servant. He was free, white and as official as the President’s secretary. Saying he forgot himself with respect to her was as good as a slap to the face. Men duelled for less.

  Her eyes widened as she realised what she’d done. I expected her to apologise, but she stood her ground, daring him to object.

  I held my breath, terrified of what the Master of Ceremonies might do.

  The strangest look passed over French John’s face. There was a flash of what might have been sorrow, then nothing. This wasn’t like Mama’s bland façade. He had no expression at all.

  He drew himself to his full height, shoulders squared and hands at his sides like a soldier coming to attention. He tipped his head in a small bow.

  ‘Your orders, Madame President?’ he asked in a voice as empty as his face.

  Miss Dolley’s shoulders sagged in what I suspect was relief. Then she collected herself, straightening her spine until her bearing matched his.

  ‘Are Mr Madison’s papers loaded on the big wagon?’

  ‘I saw to it myself,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Take the red velvet drapes out of storage and place them in my carriage, as well as the large silver urns from the dining room. Pack as much of the plate as you can, but be sure of the urns. They’re the most valuable . . .’ Miss Dolley stopped. She pressed her hands against her temples. ‘Why am I dithering about urns? This war isn’t about urns. Or restraint of trade. God bless Mr Madison, it’s not about trade at all. It’s about our independence, and the way General Washington sent the British packing in ’Eighty-one. That’s why they’re here instead of Baltimore or New York. This is Washington’s city. They’re counting coup.’

  My heart dropped past my knees. First she’d lost her temper, now her wits. What would she lose next – our lives?

  French John made a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

  ‘They want trophies,’ Miss Dolley said. ‘They can’t take the city home with them. They can’t take General Washington either, unless they want to dig up his bones. Even mad King George wouldn’t stand for that. But they still want proof they’ve bested us, something they can parade in triumph through the streets of London, a symbol of our vanquished state. And what could be more symbolic than the big portrait of President Washington hanging in the dining room?

  ‘We can’t let them have it, Mr Sioussat,’ she said. ‘Take it down from the wall. Break the frame if you must. Save the picture if possible. But under no circumstances allow it to fall into the hands of the British. If worse comes to worst, destroy it. Burn it to ash.’

  Personally, I thought she was making a big to-do over nothing. What did it matter if they saved the picture and lost the town? But her fervour sparked something in French John. When he left to do her bidding, his face was a face again, not something stuck on the front of a statue.

  Miss Dolley seemed to have recovered herself as well. The next thing I knew she was snapping out orders like always. She told the free white servants to leave as soon as the household fires were banked. She loaned the butler the small coach, since unlike the whites, he and his family lived with the rest of us in the service wings. She sent footmen in search of more wagons and horses.

  None of us expected them to find any. Everyone who was anyone had abandoned the city as soon as the British landed in Maryland, taking their horses, coaches and carts with them. Whatever was left behind was soon taken by others looking to escape. Still, it was a comfort to know she cared enough to try.

  Even better was learning she had a plan. She told us to pack only what we could carry, because it was a long walk to the Georgetown ferry, and there was no telling how far we might have to travel once we crossed the river to Virginia. Just thinking about the trip made my feet hurt, but the rest of me felt like I was taking my first clean breath after being trapped in a house full of smoke. With our Lady President back in charge, things didn’t seem nearly so hopeless.

  ‘Not you, Lula,’ Miss Dolley said in a hard voice. ‘Come with me.’

  Mama almost smiled. I couldn’t imagine why. From the sound of things, Miss Dolley hadn’t forgotten whatever made her mad in the first place, and the scolding was bound to be worse for being delayed. I sidled towards the house. I had no desire to be thought a party to Mama’s reprimand. Besides, I had a load of packing to do.

  Mama grabbed my arm. She didn’t let go until we were standing in Miss Dolley’s yellow parlour with the door shut behind us.

  ‘I suppose you’re very pleased with yourself,’ Miss Dolley spat.

  Mama shook her head. ‘I love the British less than you, and with more cause. I only told you what the spirits told me. Now you know they spoke true.’

  ‘If you and your spirits are so all-powerful, why don’t you do something?’

  Mama crossed her arms under her breasts and stared Mrs President Madison in the eye as if they were equals. In that moment, I could almost believe they were. They might have been two sides of the same mirror: Miss Dolley in her smoke grey house dress with her dark curls spooling from the edges of her turban, and Mama in the grey dress she made from Miss Dolley’s discards, her braids peeping from the kerchief tied around her head. They were even of a height. The only thing separating them was the colou
r of their skin.

  Miss Dolley turned away first. She groped for the nearest chair and fell in it like a woman twice her age.

  Mama sighed. ‘I can’t stop the British from burning the Capitol or the President’s House. The saints themselves couldn’t stop them. That much is written. I can only change what comes after.’

  Miss Dolley’s head whipped up, the fight back in her eyes. ‘Then do it. Your country needs you!’

  ‘It surely does,’ Mama agreed. ‘But first, me and mine need some of that independence you’re so proud of.’

  Miss Dolley sniffed. ‘How much more independence do you need? You have your papers. Mr Madison recognised you and your daughter as freeborn as soon as your family sent the records.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t take me back, not soiled as I am. I’m as dependent on your charity as ever I was a slave. Meanwhile, my daughter scrubs floors alongside girls who don’t even know their letters. That’s no future for a child of mine.’

  ‘You want money?’ Miss Dolley barked a laugh. ‘You’re too late. The Treasury left this morning.’

  ‘You still have money for the running of the house. I’ll take half. Paper bills or silver, makes no difference to me. I’ll need a few other things besides. Nothing you’ll miss – a rooster from the coop and some provisions. But first, I want a letter, signed with your full name and your title as Lady President, stating I’m acting for you, and that my daughter and me are free to travel wherever our business takes us in these United States.’

  ‘And if I refuse.’

  Mama shrugged. Being from New Orleans, she was more than a little French herself. ‘The British cross the river into Virginia. You can burn the bridges and beach the ferry, but they got boats, and the navy hasn’t stopped them yet. How long you think this union of states will last with their President dead and their Lady President a “Guest of the Crown”? Folks up north been calling for peace for two years now. They say they’re going broke, and it’s all the fault of southern planters like your husband who’re too high in the instep to compromise in the name of trade.’