Magnificat

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  There were a few words of agreement at Cardinal Fiorivi’s proposals, but Cardinal Tayibha could not go along with the others.

  “Eminences,” he said, his voice cracking, “we are here to invite the Holy Spirit to make itself known to us. We have all written a name, the same name. Might not this be a manifestation of the Holy Spirit? It is said that the Holy Spirit could inspire us to elect any living soul on the earth to occupy the Throne of Saint Peter. Dare we presume to declare ourselves above the visitation of the Holy Spirit, and the true Will of God if that is what has actually occurred?”

  “The Holy Spirit would not be recommending a Chinese to be Pope,” announced Cardinal Folgar. “It’s absurd to think otherwise. We know the dogma, but we know the Church, as well.” His smile was condescending as he went on to the soft-spoken Cardinal from Madras. “It is your first time in conclave, and you are still learning your way. Your piety does you credit, of course, but in circumstances like this, it is essential that we do not permit ourselves to be deceived. So many Catholics are gullible and can be taken in by any number of ruses, and never more so than when we are in conclave.” He looked around and saw favorable responses in the eyes of many of the Cardinals. “We have been the victims of a clever, evil joke, and we must be at pains to guard against similar incidents.”

  Again there were gestures of support, a few quite emphatic.

  But Hunfredo, Cardinal Montebranco was not convinced. “How can you assume that we have been deceived? Is it impossible that the Holy Spirit would touch each of us, if God wished it?”

  “We pray that we will receive the gifts of the Holy Spirit,” said Cardinal Jung at once, “but Folgar is right; it is not credible that the Holy Spirit would offer the name of a Chinese.” He had a deep, plumy laugh. “How could such a thing happen?”

  “If it is the Will of God,” said the venerable Cardinal Montebranco, “it would require only to exist; credibility is for fallible humans.” He crossed himself. “I pray that we are not like Peter, to deny Our Lord when He is present.”

  “Do you seriously suppose that the Holy Spirit would offer the name of a Chinese? A non-Catholic? A Communist?” demanded Cardinal Jung, his voice rising in pitch with each question.

  “No,” said Cardinal O’Higgins in a thoughtful voice. “No, but that does not mean anything when dealing with matters of God. What we suppose is as nothing.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “It would be easier to turn away if only a few had written the name, but as we all did, it is.…”

  “Proof that the saboteurs have agents in the Vatican, as we have long suspected,” said Cardinal Folgar promptly. “This is the result of careful planning, that may have taken years to put into action. Whatever their goals and whoever they are, they have overstepped themselves here. That shows pride, and their error. Had they given the…vision to half our number, it would appear odd but reasonable, but they become greedy, and that was the source of their failure.” He motioned to Father McEllton. “You have done well by coming to us in this way. If you had spoken officially we would have had to make a statement and we can say nothing official about this. When we reveal tomorrow that we have not yet reached a decision, we will know our enemies by their responses.” He crossed himself and folded his hands, looking very placid. “It might be best if we retire at once, so that we can explore our thoughts in privacy; we will give nothing away to our enemies if we are silent.”

  Cardinal Shumwoe nodded gravely, his densely black skin making him look like a walking shadow. “In the morning we must discuss our experiences. Until then, I am convinced Cardinal Folgar is right—the less we are together the less chance there is that we will weaken our position.” To provide an example he turned away and started toward his temporary cell.

  “It is well-advised,” said Cardinal Hetre, indicating the other Canadian Cardinal, Victor, Cardinal Mnientek. “Come, Eminence.”

  “For Canada?” asked Cardinal Mnientek with a lift to his brows; the mischief in his eyes was at odds with his angular Polish features.

  “For the memory of Urban IX, and for the benefit of the Church,” said Cardinal Hetre. “We owe that much to his reign, surely; we all do,” he added pointedly.

  Several Cardinals agreed, a few of them moving away with the two Canadians; others were confused by this failure of protocol and uncertain of what was best to do.

  Charles, Cardinal Mendosa took up the case, standing as if he were about to get on a half-broke horse. “The less we say about this, the better. I’m not suggesting we should ignore it—nothing like that. But we need to have our priorities straight. After we have a Pope, then we can set about finding out what this thing was and who was behind it. In the meantime, I thought we better get a new kitchen staff while we’re in here. Something got hold of us, and if it wasn’t the Holy Spirit, it was probably in the air or the food. Those are the two things we all share. So we’ll start with the food: it’s easier.” He had one hand on his hip as if there might be a phantom six-gun under his fingers. “And when we find out who’s doing this, we’d best deal with them quickly and quietly. We don’t want any publicity getting out about this. You know the press would be all over us, and they’re bad enough as it is with every Bible-thumping preacher from one end of the world to the other talking about the Second Coming and the Antichrist.” He crossed himself. “God is better served without a lot of glitz and glamour.”

  It galled Cardinal Folgar to agree with the tall, rangy Texan from Houston, but he knew it was the wisest course. “We are all aware it would be ill-advised for the world to learn of this.”

  “Might give them ideas,” added Cardinal Mendosa. “They could take a notion to question everything, to think it’s all conspiracies. It’s bad enough watching the loonies on TV talking about the Second Coming as if it were a rock concert. I see a lot of that back home.”

  Cardinal Folgar stifled the retort he longed to give about Americans in general and Texans in particular; instead he said, “We must think of the Church, how it is to endure the next three years, until we are safely launched on the new millennium.”

  Cardinal van Hooven peered out through the pebble-thick lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Silence, Eminences. Silence first. Leave a little time for the soul to speak. We’ve already said too much, and confounded our minds. We must quiet the disorder within ourselves and turn our thoughts to the inner light where God is found.” He leaned on his cane as he made his way toward his temporary cell, saying as he went, “I will retire for the evening. You may concoct whatever tale you wish to placate the press.”

  “He has the right idea,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Let’s just make sure that Father McEllton doesn’t end up with egg on his face, all right?” He looked around. “Okay. You: Gemme. You’re the one the press likes best. You can work out the right way to explain what’s going on in here, without telling them much. Make sure the reporters don’t spook you.” He touched his pectoral crucifix and his weathered face softened. “We owe it to the Church, Gemme.”

  “Of course,” said Cardinal Gemme harshly.

  “We’re depending on you.” Cardinal Mendosa grinned at Cardinal Gemme. “I’ll make special mention of you in my prayers, Eminence.”

  Cardinal Gemme swung around and stalked away from the small remaining knot of Cardinals.

  * * *

  It was well into the night when Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha finally ceased his meditations. For the last two hours he had permitted himself to hope that the disastrous ballots were an isolated incident, something they had faced and defeated; now he wanted a little rest before the Cardinals met again. He thought of God, the mystery of Him, and for once was chilled instead of comforted. He rose from his knees and prepared himself for bed, hoping that the fragile serenity he had found for himself would sustain him into the morning when he would need it most.

  As he slipped between the sheets, he had one last frisson of doubt: what if they were opposing the Will of God? What if that Chinese name was truly
the mandate of the Holy Spirit, and not some clever psychological manipulation on the part of those seeking to sabotage the conclave and the Church? He recalled that anyone elected twice by the College of Cardinals could not refuse the Papacy; the Cardinals could not elect another Pope until the one elected twice had served. He shuddered as he closed his eyes.

  With an effort he forced these unwelcome thoughts from his mind, unwilling to sleep with such questions for company, for he knew it led to the turbulence of the soul which the Cardinal could not endure.

  * * *

  From time to time Cardinal Hetre was plagued with nightmares, and never more than on this night. He tossed on his narrow bed, wishing he were back in Quebec instead of trapped here in Rome, a prisoner of the conclave. Sweat stood out on his brow; his arms thrashed against the sheets as if they were the most formidable bonds. In his dream he screamed and howled, but all that escaped his lips was a soft, pitiful moan.

  Something pursued him, something he could not bring himself to face, something that had long ago sent him into the Church for safety, a personal Nemesis more terrible than the promise of Hell for those who sinned. He did not know why he was sought, and had no desire to find out. He wanted only to get away from the terrible thing, and that was the one wish he seemed destined not to be granted.

  He sat up in bed and started to pray, quiet, personal petitions to the Virgin and to God for the peace that is not of this world, which had eluded him for so long.

  * * *

  Before the first bells of morning, Charles, Cardinal Mendosa awoke. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, wanting to be back in Houston: he hated Rome. Horrible thing for a Catholic to feel, let alone a Cardinal. Rome brought out the worst in him. It was nothing but a monument to its own swollen self-importance, and it colored the Church with grandiose traditions that still made him squirm. He was never more Texan than when he was in Rome.

  A month before the conclave, he had received a delegation from the followers of the Reverend Robert Williamson, the most popular of the Fundamentalists preaching the Second Coming on television. The six men were successful and confident, trying to sway the Cardinal to their position in anticipation of the death of Pope Urban IX, who was lying in a coma at the Vatican. They presented their statistics and quoted Scripture, making it apparent they expected his cooperation. At the time he had been polite to mask his ire; now he was afraid that those followers of Reverend Williamson might have more strength than he first supposed. They had been so polished. They had told him—very discreetly, of course—that the Church was falling apart and that Reverend Williamson was looking to save the souls of all Christians.

  These were not the Protestants Cardinal Mendosa was used to. These men were there to deliver a threat, to put him on notice that they were going to damage him and the Church as much and whenever possible. Never before had Cardinal Mendosa experienced such subtle malice from any Protestants, no matter how angry some of them might have been. Until that interview he had assumed that difficult though it occasionally was, Catholics and Protestants would find some way to rattle along together, their Christianity giving them common ground. After the Reverend Williamson’s men visited him, he was no longer certain of it.

  Every day the conclave continued gave those slick, dangerous men—and those like them—more power and credibility. Cardinal Mendosa could feel it in the air, even here in Rome. And the dreams had come back. For the first time in almost a decade, he was having those eerie dreams that had brought him into the Church so long ago.

  “We’re going to have to agree today,” he said softly to the darkness. “We don’t agree today and this thing’s gonna bust wide open.” He was not sure he was speaking to anyone other than himself. “If it busts wide open, then it’s all over. We’ll never get another Pope that everyone can accept.” Saying it aloud made him more convinced he was right, casting his thoughts back more than forty years, to the first dreams he had had that had disturbed Father Aloysius, the dearly flawed Irishman who had been his parish priest.

  Cardinal Mendosa turned on his side and determinedly closed his eyes, wanting to be rid of the memory. “This is different,” he whispered, and saw the dreams again as clearly as he had at nine when he had been examined by Father Aloysius and then Bishop Parker, both men questioning him for hours about what he had seen in his dreams. They had finally dismissed them as the result of the boy’s vivid imagination, his vision of a Catholic President shot in Texas while riding in an open car surrounded by police.

  And eight years later it happened, exactly as he had dreamed it. Cardinal Mendosa put his hand to his eyes as if that would block what he remembered. The new dreams were as unsettling and as unanswerable, and he found them as hard to turn from now as he had when he was a boy.

  “We have to agree. Today,” he muttered, shivering in the bed. The new vision dismayed him, and he wanted to be free of it: a Pope who was not Catholic was unthinkable, no matter how theoretically and theologically possible. The Cardinals would have to agree today, or it would be too late.

  The first deep bell of Saint Peter’s began to toll, a low E that shuddered on the pre-dawn air. Cardinal Mendosa heard it with relief as he threw back the covers and began his first prayers of the morning.

  Chapter 2

  “Habemus Papam!” came the glorious announcement to the assembled faithful in the oval-shaped plaza below. An answering cheer went up, and the thousands flocked more tightly toward the balcony where the news was given.

  In the splendid Latin phrases—one of the few remaining rituals in the ancient tongue—it was proclaimed to the world that Ottone, Cardinal Folgar of Verona would reign as Celestine VI.

  Again there were cheers, interspersed with a few derisive whistles, for Cardinal Folgar was an outspoken and staunch conservative who was not as popular as some of the Cardinals. In general the new Pope was greeted enthusiastically, for he had always stood firm against the radical elements in the Church, and for the traditional values of family and Catholicism.

  “I sure hope we know what we’re doing,” Cardinal Mendosa whispered as the international press closed in for the story. He had dreamed again that night and what he had seen still troubled him.

  “What do you think about the new Pope, Eminence?” asked a reporter with a strong Midwestern accent. “You being from Texas and all, does this Folgar seem like a good choice to you? Good for Americans as well as Italians, I mean?”

  Cardinal Mendosa looked at the brash young man. “The word Catholic means universal. The election of the Pope is not the same popularity contest that most elections are. It is the Will of the Holy Spirit that determines who will wear the tiara.” He knew he sounded inexcusably stuffy, but he was in no mood to accommodate the newspeople who flocked around; the bargain the Cardinals had struck continued to rankle with him.

  “Aw, come on, Cardinal,” the young man persisted. “You can’t tell me that popularity doesn’t enter into the Papacy. Everyone know that the Popes are as much political as religious. You said that yourself last year in Chicago. I can quote the lecture, if you like.” His smile was two notches off being a smirk.

  “All right, I concede there is a political component to the Papal elections, as there are to all elections, I suspect. But we are subject to the rule of the Holy Spirit, and that must be the central concern of every conclave, to strive for the presence and to act on the Will of the Holy Spirit.” He thought of the identical Chinese name on all their ballots, ballots which they had destroyed.

  “Is that what happened?” the reporter asked, and without waiting for an answer, continued. “What about what Reverend Williamson said last night? Do you want to comment about that?”

  It took all of Cardinal Mendosa’s self-discipline not to give a sharp retort. He drew a deep breath. “Since I don’t know what Reverend Williamson said last night, I’m in no position to comment, and since Reverend Williamson is not Catholic, it would not be appropriate in any case.” He saw that his answer had not deterred
the young reporter. On impulse he tried a new ploy. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me. I have said I will give an interview to Mister Foot, and I notice he’s waiting for me. You might try Cardinal Walgren.”

  “Going with the big shots?” the young reporter demanded, unimpressed by the suggestion to speak with the charismatic Cardinal from Los Angeles. “Too bad I’m not the anchorman for INS or one of the other satellite networks; I might have a little pull. All Walgren ever talks about is Hispanic gangs and drug dealers.”

  Cardinal Mendosa moved away from the young man, making his way along the velvet rope separating the Cardinals from the press toward the tall, lanky Brit in the silk sportcoat. As he went he comforted himself with the thought that he had not lied to the impertinent young reporter—he had a standing agreement with Fitzwilliam Foot to give him an interview any time it was requested, with the understanding that he would not be asked any seriously embarrassing questions. At a time like this, he thought, that was a rare consolation.

  * * *

  Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme faced the bright studio lights with the aplomb of experience. He was dressed in an expensive business suit, in keeping with the reforms of Urban IX, who had encouraged the adoption of secular dress; only the three pins on his lapel revealed his position and title in the Church.