But if the entity (non-entity?) was what she suspected, she was confronted with an onerous task. She drew out her notepad and flipped up some observations she’d written in the five days since the chamber was breached. Within seconds she added a new line:
Who is the Creator?
She scanned the notes, seeking inspiration. Sifting the evidence, weighing probabilities, she started to scribble more comments, occasionally peering up at the visage in stone.
A couple of minutes later she leaned back and studied her additions:
6 August 1978
Circa 6.30 p.m., the Pope laid low by suspected pulmonary edema in Castel Gandolfo. Was opening of the Temple of the Vates the final straw to his failing heart? He is reported to have mumbled ‘Where there’s a hell, there’s a heaven.’ He died at 9.41 p.m. The interregnum begins.
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Creator . . . Ialdabaoth? Also known as Saklas, idiot god, and Samael, blind god.
Mentioned H. P. Lovecraft to Jerome. Unconscious association? Lovecraft’s Azathoth the idiot creator at the centre of chaos. Ialdabaoth, god of chaos. Maybe the Puritan Atheist of Rhode Island was an authentic mystic after all.
She winced. ‘That was a bit harsh. Sorry, H. P.’
What can exist does exist. In a multiverse, innumerable heavens, numberless hells.
‘I believe in God, and I believe in gods.’
Simon Magus writes that the door opens from both sides with a burst of lightning (release of energy on contact?) and that the door is found where the walls of the world have worn thin. Further . . . it opens with a touch.
She placed the notebook on the adjoining chair, the rudiments of a plan forming in her mind. It was a truly awful plan, so simple it was borderline moronic, but the best she could come up with. There was no authority she could seek. She was the authority.
‘And with that thought, God help us all.’
*
Once again, Jerome reached out to press the transceiver’s com button. Once again, he withdrew his hand. The nun, albeit an offbeat nun, had made herself clear as ice. As she was second only to Felici, himself the de facto head of the Crypt, her orders should be followed without question.
But he couldn’t do it. For all he knew, Sister Yi was in danger, somewhere in the necropolis. He had thought she would have come here, to the Chamber of the Vates. It seemed the logical destination. But, sitting on the ground in this empty vault, not the faintest echo of approaching feet resonated from its walls. The chamber was quiet.
Finally he rose to his feet. He had waited long enough. Since he ran from what he felt was an emerging presence, sprinting clean across the chamber to the far wall, he had cowered on the ground. At least he’d resisted the temptation to flee the vault. He hadn’t held his ground in front of the Mouth, but he hadn’t fled the scene. Although that wasn’t saying much.
Well, he would try to make up for his cowardice. Taking a deep breath, he walked across the chamber, past the canvas chairs, and halted in front of the stone face with its lip-ringed aperture of – nothing. This time he’d face out his fear.
He lifted the transceiver and pressed for contact. ‘Sister Yi, we must talk.’
*
Standing in front of the Mouth, she closed her eyes as she prepared to summon whatever lay beyond it.
And nearly jumped out of her skin at the loud buzz of the transceiver. Cursing, she lifted the transceiver to her mouth.
‘Sister Yi, we must talk.’ The priest’s voice was as distorted as in the first call, and this time there was a peculiar echo, as if in stereo.
‘No we don’t. Do as you’re told, get clear of here.’
‘Wherever you are, Sister, I want to help you.’
‘Well you can’t. Go away.’
A pause. ‘Very well. But if you need me, I’m only a call away. I just want you to know, I’ll be fulfilling my mission as a watcher. I’ll keep vigil all night.’
Lines puzzled her forehead. ‘What are you talking about? Where are you?’
‘I’m in the Chamber of the Vates.’
She involuntarily looked over her shoulder at the chamber, realised the futility of the action, then stared at the transceiver as though the device had gone insane.
‘You’re where?’
‘In the Chamber of the Vates,’ he repeated in a tone that certainly sounded quite sane.
‘Jerome, I saw you run out of the chamber.’
‘But I didn’t! I ran across the room to the far wall. I’ve been here ever since. But how could you—’
‘Count that as the most unsuccessful lie of your life. Guess how I know it’s a lie? Because I’m in the Chamber of the Vates!’
‘You can’t be!’
‘Well, if you’re not lying, then one of us is nuts, and it’s not me. Dominus vobiscum and adios!’
She returned the transceiver to its belt loop and expelled a sharp breath. ‘What a liar.’
‘I’m telling the truth.’ The voice was small and remote, yet more distinct than before. No distortion.
Startled, she darted a look at the transceiver.
‘Why won’t she believe I’m telling the truth?’
The transceiver was mute.
Her gaze shifted to the Mouth. That’s where Jerome’s voice was coming from. Now she recalled the echo on the radio: it was Jerome-beyond-the-wall double-tracking the priest on the radio.
The implications were staggering. It would take weeks to absorb them. She had seconds. She made the best of them.
Just as we are at this moment close to Bauli and are looking towards Puteoli, so there are countless persons in exactly similar spots . . .
Backing away from the mouth, she lifted the transceiver. She definitely wasn’t inclined to talk to a wall.
‘Jerome, I’m back. Now I’m going to ask you some very silly questions. All you have to do is answer. No laughing, no querying, just answer. Got that?’
‘Okay.’ The tone was guarded.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Are you standing directly in front of the Mouth?’
‘Right in front of it.’
‘That fits. So far, so good. Now, was there a major event in Castel Gandolfo today?’
‘Of course. The death of His Holiness.’
‘Right. And what time did Pope Paul die?’
‘Pope Paul?’ he echoed.
‘Pope Paul VI, successor of John XXIII.’
‘What’s wrong with you? Celestine VI is the Pope.’
A stealthy cold seeped down her spine. She tried her best to ignore it. ‘Let’s be scrupulously exact here. Are you saying that Celestine VI is the direct successor to John XXIII, and that he died tonight?’
‘Well, yes. Pope Celestine succeeded John XXIII. And Celestine died over five hours ago.’
In your world, Jerome, not in mine.
‘And was Celestine the former Cardinal Montini?’ she asked.
‘Yes. You know he was!’
She nodded. Same man, different papal title.
‘One last question, of paramount importance. You know me – right? I mean, I’ve never actually spoken to you before but—’
‘Of course you have! Many times!’
‘Well, yes and no. From where I’m standing, I haven’t. But from where you’re standing . . . what did I say to you? Do you know my plans for the chamber?’
‘You’ve made no secret of them in the Crypt. The plans are to contact some timeless power. Bring God into the world.’
She shut her eyes for a moment. You have a fool for an alter ego, Sister Yi. Although, with a toss of the coin, I might have made the same mistake.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ she said. ‘Oh, and I apologise for accusing you of fleeing the chamber. That wasn’t you. It was another you. He has probably arrived at the Apostolic Palace by now.’
‘Are you feeling all right?’ There was genuine concern in his tone.
‘Actually, I’m not, but that’s irrelevant.’ She drew a
deep breath. ‘Listen closely – we live in different universes, and I’m not speaking metaphorically.’
‘What!’
‘That’s the easy part. It gets a lot worse. Hold on to your hat. From the presence you described, or rather didn’t describe, I think I might know its identity. According to Simon Magus, Ialdabaoth is the creator of your universe – and mine. A mindless creator that knows not what he creates.’
‘I believe in God! I’m a priest, after all. Don’t you believe, Sister?’
‘Indeed I do. I believe in God, and gods, but I don’t require God to be my creator. I’m more than happy with God as my Redeemer. According to the Gnostics, there’s a crack in our dark universe. The crack lets in the light – and not only the light.’
‘The old Gnostic heresy . . .’ A lengthy silence. ‘If you can prove we’re in different worlds, I might consider what you say. How can we be talking via radio? Nothing can pass between universes.’
‘Sound and electromagnetic waves seem able to do that, for a start,’ she said. ‘That’s evident, at least to me. Or I should say, they pass through where the walls of the world are worn thin.’
‘That’s no proof.’
‘Okay, what if I talk to you through the Mouth, would that convince you?’
‘There could be a hidden transmitter,’ he responded. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
She sighed. ‘I knew it would come to this. Okay, you must know about the strange properties of the Mouth. It can’t be touched. What do you think will happen if we touch it simultaneously?’
‘Nothing?’
‘My guess is you’re wrong. I’ve had the advantage of reading a certain apocryphon and certain phrases are lodged in my mind. Phrases like “the door is found where the walls of the world are worn thin . . .”, “the door opens from both sides” . . . perhaps only from both sides simultaneously . . . “opens with a touch – and lightning”.’
‘No offence, but that sounds like babbling.’
A smile spread her lips. ‘As always, “no offence” is a prefix to offence. But point taken. Let’s just say there’s a witless creator, a demiurge, between universes. And it’s creeping – no, squeezing – into our worlds, expanding into space itself like some sort of – what shall I call it? – negative energy . . . dark energy . . .’
‘Does it matter what you call it?’
‘Not sure. I think I may have been on to something there. However, to the task in hand . . . how do we get light – lightning – into our worlds, a weapon against Ialdabaoth? Where there’s a hell, there’s a heaven. We invite the light, perhaps, by reaching through the door.’
‘You mean through the Mouth? But it can’t be touched because—’
‘Because it isn’t really there,’ she broke in. ‘But if two people on each side of the door touch as much as a fingertip simultaneously, who knows?’
She stretched out her arm, index finger pointed at the nothingness between the stone lips. ‘My fingertip is two inches from the Mouth. Place yours in the same position.’
*
Jerome reluctantly did as requested. For all his sceptical words to Sister Yi, he still quailed at the memory of the nightmare presence that had emanated from the wall. His main impulse was to run again. He glanced up at the mural. That presence – was it the source of the celestial-infernal madhouse painted in ancient times?
He tried to take in what Sister Yi was telling him, but it was so confusing: there are many cracks in the universe, and not all of them let in light . . . the door opens with a touch . . . the door opens with lightning . . .
He gave up, and concentrated on moving his fingertip nearer to the Mouth, now less than an inch away.
‘Almost there,’ he said. ‘How close are you?’
‘Within an inch. When I say “now”, push forward. Oh – and Jerome – what do you have faith in?’
‘The divine in the human spirit.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘And you?’
‘The unknown. If there are innumerable hells then there are innumerable heavens.’ A brief silence. ‘Before we touch, you think of your faith and I’ll think of mine. Don’t allow anything else to enter your mind – or something else might come.’
‘Ialdabaoth?’ He heard the tremble in his voice. ‘But isn’t that . . . thing . . . coming anyway?’
‘Sure, but let’s not hasten its arrival. Ready?’
He shut his eyes, and summoned an image of a child he had known once, a girl in a terminal cancer ward who had set about giving away her toys to other children in the few weeks left to her. Her smile as she handed over the toys was, for him, proof of the divine.
He sucked in a deep breath. ‘Ready.’
‘Now!’
He pushed his finger forward.
*
She pushed her finger forward.
And the world vanished.
There was nothing. Nothing that could be seen, or heard.
Vacuum.
Plenum.
Everything and nothing were co-existent.
Then . . . a point of contact, infinitely small.
A touch.
A quantum event that happened and didn’t happen.
A cosmos of lightning.
*
A burst of light flung Monsignor Felici back in his chair, which tilted and crashed backward, depositing him on the carpet. He sprawled there, heart thudding, vision swimming.
Thunder from under the earth. Down from where he’d sent Sister Yi to serve as sentinel.
Something was breaking into the world.
‘Libera nos a malo,’ he gasped. ‘Oh God, Sister Yi . . . what have you done?’
*
Lightning blasted Sister Yi across the floor of the chamber.
Prostrate on the stone, she struggled to lift her head. A hazy vision of the vault. Then even that hazy vision faded.
Then nothing.
Time may have passed.
Her eyes flickered open. Her other senses awoke. And sensed something unholy in the air.
They had failed. Before losing consciousness she had sensed rather than seen the lightning. Now she knew that light was more than simply the lightning. This was not lightning from heaven, but the blast of infernal energy. Hell was coming from between universes.
She pulled up the transceiver as she swayed to her feet. ‘Jerome! Jerome! We summoned Ialdabaoth! We have to try again – now!’
After an excruciating wait, his dazed tone issued from the radio. ‘It was me. At the last moment I forgot – my faith – just saw the cancer . . .’
‘One last try!’ She staggered to the Mouth. ‘Tell me when you’re ready.’
Mercifully, the wait was short. ‘Say when, Sister.’
A terrible Nothing bulged out of the wall. The mural burst into a celebration of bedlam.
‘Now!’
*
As he reached towards the Mouth, Jerome fixed his thoughts on the girl with her toys in the hospital ward. On the previous attempt, at the last instant, the girl’s smile had been swallowed in the image of her wasted body, riddled with cancer.
And with the thought of cancer, that terrible presence returned.
He mustn’t fail a second time. He must remember the smile.
His hand stretched into . . .
Nothing and nowhere. Everywhere.
An impossible coincidence of the subatomic and the cosmic.
In this nothing and everything, he sought the human spirit.
And reaching out to the human, the human reached back.
Two ghosts made contact, a phantom touch.
Revelatory lightning.
Thunder of the soul.
The mighty bells of heaven.
*
Monsignor Felici sat up on the floor, sprung from despair to exaltation.
Ialdabaoth, Saklas, Samael . . . whatever name was ascribed to that unhallowed presence, it was, for now, cast back into the nothing between the worlds.
‘You did it, Sister
Yi!’ He subsided into the relief of laughter. ‘Thank God, you did it.’
*
‘We did it.’
Sister Yi stepped back from the Mouth and lowered her arm.
‘Yes,’ Jerome answered from another world. ‘We did it.’
Sister Yi knelt down, lowered her head, and smiled.
*
Slowly, two ghosts scaled the spiral staircase out of the necropolis to the slate grey predawn of Vatican City.
The two never spoke, or exchanged glances. They existed, after all, in different universes.
But Sister Yi and Jerome had the same thought.
Lightning had struck the same spot twice. The second time was the cure. Where there was a hell, there was a heaven.
Ialdabaoth had not conquered.
And if heaven had not conquered either, at least now the battle was evenly matched.
Ω
In a note attached to this account, Sister Yi explains that she and Father Jerome spent some hours talking in the Chamber of the Vates before, in each of their worlds, their replacements as watchers arrived and they were able to leave.
Her account of that night includes her reconstruction from what Jerome told her of his own thoughts and feelings as he had worked his way down to the chamber on his own. They agreed that he should write a similar account including what she told him. We cannot know whether his account remains in the Vatican Vaults in his world or whether it too has been brought to light.
Nor can we know whether later that August Cardinal Albino Luciani succeeded to St Peter’s Chair in Jerome’s world, as he did in ours, and if so, what name he took as Pope. We can only hope that the second lightning strike heralded a new age of openness in his Vatican, as in ours.
The Writers
KristaLyn Amber
KristaLyn Amber was born and raised in Pennsylvania and became addicted to travelling early in life. She has travelled to more than twenty countries for both mission and leisure and gains a lot of inspiration for her stories this way. She graduated from Susquehanna University with a degree in English Literature and has published five books including her most recent, Pure Fyre. KristaLyn now lives in Virginia, working for the Walt Disney Company and continuing to write. Her website is www.kristalyn.biz.
Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more Page 57