Where a woman sat, alone.
Lilith took a step towards her. ‘I am Lilith.’
The woman, childlike in her curiosity and lack of fear, said, ‘I am Eve.’
*
I sensed that someone else had stepped into the attic room. There was a familiar smoky scent. A cigar.
‘Miss Brown?’ The new voice was sonorous.
And shockingly familiar.
I closed the notebook, the act oddly furtive, and turned, slowly, to face the newcomer.
‘I am impressed, young lady, that you were able to break through that ring of steel,’ Winston Churchill rumbled. ‘Perhaps I really will see England again.’
I stared at him, bewildered, and shaken by his humanness; by the solid fact of his skin and clothes, of the sound of his breathing. And by the weariness etched deep into his face.
I took a last nerve-steadying swig of the seemingly bottomless wine bottle then offered it to Churchill. He drank deeply and enthusiastically, then drew on his cigar with equal enjoyment. The smell was oddly reassuring.
‘As much as I appreciate your faith in me, sir,’ I said, ‘I don’t think we’ll break through this time. The Jerries have this place surrounded.’
‘You will,’ Juliana said. ‘The Germans will not know which way to run.’
On cue, another burst of gunfire. We would be lucky to survive the wait until full darkness, let alone make it out to that meadow and the rendezvous with our Lysander. I was bloody scared. The fear was familiar now, almost a friend.
‘Why are you here, sir?’ I asked. Stupid question, why on earth should he tell me? It was just that talking helped.
‘I think the good Sister has told you already, Miss Brown,’ Churchill answered. ‘The burden of leadership is a heavy one. I am faced with a decision. Our new American allies demand Europe, my instinct shouts North Africa first and a thrust into Herr Hitler’s soft white underbelly.’
‘But why here? Why these people?’
Churchill glanced at Juliana, who nodded.
‘This Order is an ancient one. It has advised kings, emperors and even popes for centuries. I have a war to shoulder. My ministers are frightened sheep. My allies shout and grow impatient. My sleep is sodden with nightmares. This is the only place left for me to turn. Only one set of voices to whom I will listen. Not all great strategists are men, Miss Brown, though I suspect they are the only ones who will be remembered.’
‘And have you made your decision?’
Churchill nodded. ‘It will win me few friends.’
One of the Sisters appeared in the doorway and spoke to Juliana in a language I didn’t recognise.
‘It is time.’ Juliana turned to me. ‘A little faith is needed. I will give you a diversion, a moment.’
*
The building was a large house. The stairs ended in the dusty ruin of its entrance hall. Doors hung open, the ceiling was denuded, laths exposed, bowed, splintered. The floor was awash with plaster. Shattered furniture littered the hallway. The front door had long been blasted from its hinges. Two Sisters crouched on either side of the gap. Both clutched rifles, Lee Enfields, British Army issue by the look of them, left behind in 1940 or perhaps parachuted in as supplies to the Resistance. One of the Sisters was bleeding from a head wound. The blood cut a trail through the dust that caked her face.
I saw a third Sister, sprawled on her back just outside the door.
We dropped to our haunches against the wall and away from the doorway.
‘This diversion had better be good,’ I muttered to Juliana. I knew I had no choice but to trust her.
Juliana merely smiled. The smile swept away the ravages of age. ‘When I tell you to run, you must run,’ she said.
I glanced at the door and at the body. Bullets rattled against the side of the building.
‘Insanity,’ Churchill growled. ‘We will not last one moment out there.’ He was suddenly frail, small, childlike even.
Abruptly Juliana moved over him and took his face roughly in her hands. ‘Why did you come to me?’ she demanded. ‘Why did you risk your life to step into enemy territory?’
The man nodded awkwardly, the way a schoolboy does when undergoing a reprimand. Then he seemed to gather himself together. ‘I suppose I have been lucky until now. I survived the South African war, a car accident and a threatened invasion. There seems no reason why I shouldn’t survive this.’ He chuckled. ‘And if I don’t, well, it will be a heroic end. Except no one would know, would they? It would have to be a heart attack, a stray German bomb, an assassin even. Never the truth, eh madam?’
‘One day,’ Juliana said.
‘Come along then, young lady. I’m in your hands.’
I gritted my teeth, checked the revolver (fully loaded) and moved to the doorway, motioning Churchill to crouch behind me. He grunted with effort. His crouching and running days were long over. This was madness.
I stared out into the square, at the relentless streams of tracer arcing out of the gathering dark to slam against the walls. These were my last moments. A final breath, a movement and it would end. The vastness of it engulfed me. The notebook was tucked into my coat pocket, against my heart, but scant protection. Yet I knew it was important, oddly huge in the white-hot chaos of thought and feeling.
Let it be quick, for God’s sake let it be quick.
‘Now,’ Juliana snapped.
*
I whispered his name as I plunged into the fire-torn dark.
Philippe . . .
I was outside, in the cold air, exposed, running. And strangely free, this moment, dreamlike, bright with euphoria. I heard shouts, the clatter of small arms. I saw tracer reach towards me. I wondered, curiously, how painful the first bullet would be as it seared its way into my guts.
I heard Juliana cry out. A name.
Then there was light.
An explosion, a flare . . .
Dazzling, shimmering. Light that turned the night brighter than the day. Light filled with . . . figures, sweeping over us; figures, shapes, terrible, beautiful. There was a song, so heart-wrenching I wept.
As I grabbed Churchill’s hand and dragged him into a shambolic run, I glanced back and was sure that I saw Juliana in the arms of a man, a being, something indescribable.
Even more startling was Juliana’s face, altered, melted back into youth.
And astounding beauty.
Then the light became fire, and the song the screams of the wounded and dying. We ran on, through the burning ruins and out towards the field.
From somewhere distant came the drone of an aircraft.
*
‘I am Eve,’ said the woman. ‘Helpmeet of Adam.’
‘No,’ Lilith said. ‘You are not.’
Eve seemed confused, yet even in her confusion there was a spark, a light. ‘But . . .’
Lilith wandered to the edge of the clearing and found fruit, ripe, succulent. She picked two and offered one to Eve, who regarded it with suspicion. ‘Adam tells me what I must eat, and Is tells him.’
‘It is just a fruit, Eve. Look.’ Lilith bit into it and revelled in its sweetness.
Eve reached out tentatively and took the fruit for herself. She sat down and Lilith sat beside her. ‘You are a She. You are a soul, a life. You are wise and more powerful than you could ever know. The He is stronger of arm, so you will need to use another tool, another weapon; wisdom, Eve, the knowledge of good and evil will set you free. So listen to what I have learned . . .’
Ω
As with the previous account, what are we to make of this startlingly different version of the Genesis story of the Garden of Eden? Both Eden stories assert their ancient origins, but both surfaced with accounts written in the middle of the twentieth century, a time of turmoil and a time when old beliefs and certainties were being challenged.
Few scholars today accept the early chapters of the Old Testament as factual historical accounts. They were compiled over centuries from numerous sources, and th
e Middle East has already supplied us with variant versions of many of the Genesis stories, particularly in Sumerian mythology. These two Eden myths, then, may not have what antique dealers call a ‘provenance’ to establish their antiquity, but they fit well into the wider body of myth and might well be of ancient origin.
Their significance here, though, is that they came newly to the attention of the Church in the middle of the twentieth century, and they were suppressed.
Can we prove or disprove the existence of the Order of Shadows and Whispers? If it exists, then by its very nature as well as its name it operates in the shadows; few outside its membership would know of it. It would avoid written records; this account is the only documentary evidence we have of it – and when ‘Christine Brown’ planned to publish it, she was stopped. That in itself is not proof of its existence – but it could certainly be seen as evidence of the Church’s fear of its existence.
1948
Much controversy still surrounds the reputation of Pope Pius XII. Some criticise him for his signing of the Reichskonkordat in 1933. This was an agreement between the Vatican and the nascent Nazi regime in Germany which attempted to guarantee German Catholics certain rights in return for their silence on the subject of Hitler’s morality, or lack of it.
Others say that this is a slur on his reputation, and that Pius XII lobbied for peace throughout the Second World War, maintained links with the German resistance and denounced the atrocities of Nazism.
While he has been widely criticised for his relative silence on the persecution of Jews, it is now known that he worked quietly behind the scenes, setting up safe houses in monasteries and convents, providing fake documentation including baptismal certificates and even granting some Jews Vatican citizenship.
The last years of his life were marred by ill health; he is known to have suffered from nightmares and hallucinations, and probably dementia. This is supported by his own letters and short memoirs which have recently been released from the Vatican archives. We include one of these, which perhaps has a bearing on Pope Pius’s physical and mental health in his later years.
Gargoyles
Douglas Thompson
I read about Roswell in the papers, like everyone else, although I fail to see what that’s got to do with any of this. I do get the papers here, not quite brought to me in the mouth of an all-American dog skipping across an immaculately mowed lawn, but on an ornate silver tea tray (circa 1634, presented to the papacy by Cardinal Umberto of Albania) brought to me by Monsignor Giuseppe, my valet and household manager. Giuseppe and I often exchange pleasantries for a good fifteen minutes first thing in the morning, looking out the leaded windows together towards the sun rising over Rome’s Ponte and Parione districts, philosophising gently over the vagaries of the weather or the finer points of papal law or the Gospel of Saint John, his personal favourite. The Roswell business was in the summer of 1947, but it was not until the winter of that year that I began receiving the unexpected, and at first unwelcome, approaches from a mysterious Mr Sixsmith, who styled himself at first as a businessman from South Carolina, but who I came to understand over time actually represented some of the shadier interests of the American government.
Sixsmith (I variously understood his first name to be Walter or William but was not encouraged to use either) began with letters then telephone calls and finally visits, at which he showed me evidence of the personal endorsement of President Truman for his mission. That mission, it gradually transpired, revolved entirely around another individual, referred to only as Mr Kato, who Sixsmith said had extremely interesting views on spiritual and socio-political matters, which he was anxious to share with me. The secrecy of all of this made me nervous. Once I assented to the meeting and arrangements began being made, the details got progressively stranger. Mr Kato had unusual respiratory difficulties, other contingent health difficulties that would require complex equipment to be carried with him, and linguistic problems that would require not just two translators but some kind of mainframe computer in close attendance. I offered to visit some location more convenient for the Americans, but they seemed alarmed at the possible publicity of me travelling anywhere outside the Vatican to meet with them. And so, the terms and circumstances for this bizarre meeting were gradually fulfilled, until I finally met the mysterious Mr Kato in the spring of 1948.
The curtains had to remain drawn at all times, on the orders of the American secret services gentlemen, in the Grand Salon where I was to meet Kato. It was late afternoon when the weird figure of Kato limped into the room, held up on both sides by military policemen. I saw at once that he must be some kind of malformed dwarf, but my pity, I am ashamed to say, was immediately overtaken by an unexpected reflex of fear and disgust that I felt at the sight of the uncanny way in which this person seemed to be moving. Even now, I can remember it with a shiver, and yet find myself unable to describe adequately what it was that disturbed me about his movements.
Once Kato was seated in a seventeenth-century gold throne (a gift of Tsar Kaloyan of Bulgaria in gratitude for an indulgence for incest), and the various fussing FBI men had finished attaching tubes and wires to him, the two of us were left alone and he addressed me in a curious high-pitched electronic voice, which I found oddly mocking and insidious. Kato kept large dark-glasses on throughout our three-hour conversation, compounding my discomfort in being unable to feel a close or tangible connection with the person questioning me. Although his line of thought was often strange or confusing to me, his intelligence seemed all-pervading and at times I felt as if my every gesture and mood were being minutely monitored by him. In short: it was as if our communication was extremely one-sided. He was opaque to me, but I to him seemed pure transparent glass, a writhing insect under a microscope.
What . . . he began, would you tell your followers if you were to see evidence of there being other worlds in this galaxy, inhabited by other beings, who had no Jesus and Mary and no need to follow such gods of their own?
I explained to him of course, taken aback a little at his ignorance, that Jesus and Mary were not gods. I explained the Holy Trinity and the hierarchy of saints but he became impatient with the details of this.
Should other worlds have prophets in your view? Does the absence of such render the prophets in your world questionable in reality or utility?
I answered that I would need to know more of why such worlds had no religion and how they could have come to such a situation? Were they moral beings? Did they practise good manners and exhibit loving ways towards each other?
Kato asked me how I would feel if they reproduced in teams of 146 during three-day orgies in pools of methane hydrate. I answered that I found this disgusting and asked him if he was trying to ridicule me. A puff of blue gas emerged from the back of his collar around this time, which I took to mean a malfunction in his equipment, but which I have since come to wonder could have been the analogue of a human laugh. How did I feel about Buddha and Muhammad he wanted to know?
I said, becoming a little annoyed and defensive, that I thought them well-meaning but deluded and all their followers essentially lost and looking for the right path which they would find in Christ if we could only find the means to bring them to it. More blue gas emerged at this and found its way in little clouds up to the ornate ceiling mural of Ernesto Filipano circa 1856, playing around the faces of some displeased-looking cherubs. But I had a question of my own which I felt he had side-stepped. How could an alien world have come about without religion?
He said that such a world could have had religion once, thousands of years ago, but evolved beyond it as the only means of finding peace. I was perplexed by this and asked for extrapolation. Primitive religions had caused wars and misunderstandings and self-loathing and mental imbalance, he said. They had evolved over time into one single religion which in turn had fused with advanced science into an understanding of the universe which was finally supremely benign and enlightening.
After a few minutes’ sil
ence and reflection, I foolishly conceded that I didn’t entirely dislike the sound of that. Kato seemed to become more animated after this, and leaned forward a little in his chair and raised three claw-like fingers towards me (which I shivered at the sight of, taking them to be the result of some tragic childhood accident).
You need a new messiah, he said. Someone that all your religions can follow and believe in. If I give you this, will you promise to recommend it to all your followers?
I was outraged of course, and struggled to restrain myself. It!? I gasped.
It. He or she, whatever, Kato rasped and I thought I glimpsed a curious red light behind his dark glasses for the first time.
Whatever? I repeated, unable to contain my disgust, uncertain whether he could perceive it.
At this point he cast aside his robe, pulled various tubes from his neck and struggled to his feet and began to levitate across the room towards me, his arms outstretched. I could see at last the full effrontery, the mockery of the human form, that his body represented. He seemed to be laughing at me as I cowered on the floor and he began to make various objects lift into the air and float around the room with him. Aren’t these what you call miracles? He asked me pleadingly, whiningly, in that incessant little voice of his.
No, I sobbed, my head in my hands and my head on the floor. This is witchcraft, necromancy, make it stop.
Then you would burn us next, then worship us once we’re safely dead and gone. Isn’t that the protocol?
I ran to the windows and threw open the shutters and began screaming into the burning beloved sunlight of that Roman afternoon until the secret service men got a hold of me and put their hands over my mouth. I’m told the Praetorian Guard seized me back from their clutches a few minutes later, but by that time I had mercifully lost consciousness. But not before I had seen how that creature had shrivelled and shied away from the blessed light of daytime, from the very touch of God’s rays of goodness.
Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more Page 46