Golgotha Falls

by Frank De Felitta

  “Are you not well?” asked the Franciscan, guiding the bishop’s elbow.

  “It’s just the excitement of the moment.”

  Bishop Lyons then led a trio of Franciscans down the carpeted corridors past floral arrangements and under brilliant chandeliers to the massive oak doors.

  The bishop paused. The Nuncio was an unknown quantity to him. Aptly named, Bellocchi was both eyes and ears for His Holiness, ferreting out the characters of men for the Quebec conclave. The Nuncio was an old warhorse of the Roman curia, but he was also deeply enamored of Francis Xavier. And lately, Francis Xavier had sent him on curious missions.

  When the bishop stepped onto the flagstone of the porch, arms extended in brotherly greeting, a radiance of azure skies and brilliant autumn leaves momentarily blinded him. The Nuncio, troubleshooter to North America, papal delegate to Quebec, was a short, swarthy man, resplendent in crimson robe, crimson slippers, and crimson skullcap. The October sunlight exploded over the heavy pectoral cross.

  “It is our great honor to welcome you in Christ’s name,” Bishop Lyons said grandly, kissing the Nuncio’s ring.

  “In Christ’s name,” the Nuncio answered, smiling.

  Trailing robes, the two men ascended the stone steps toward the oak doors held open by awed Franciscans.

  “Was your flight difficult?” asked the bishop, extending a hand, a gesture for the Nuncio to enter the episcopal residence.

  “I slept badly,” Cardinal Bellocchi said, examining the chandeliers and walnut crossbeams of the ceiling.

  “Indeed?”

  Cardinal Bellocchi turned to the bishop and smiled.

  “I dreamed I was a soldier,” he said, gold-tipped teeth glinting, surveying the bishop astutely. “Carrying out a secret mission.”

  “A secret mission, Your Eminence?”

  “Yes. And I did not know what it was.”

  The Italian accent was melodious, faintly scholarly. Bishop Lyons extended his hand toward the corridor that led to the garden and the luncheon; the Nuncio followed, robes sweeping audibly over the carpets.

  The Nuncio spoke by indirection, by subtle metaphor, probing and measuring the man in front of him. Bishop Lyons felt uneasy, since he himself was a practical man, a man of well-kept accounts, obedient councilors, and a smooth-running board of diocesan administrators.

  As they walked past the stained-glass windows, the standing priests, a coterie of blushing nuns from the kitchen staff, an aura of pomp radiated from Cardinal Bellocchi, transforming the residence into something suddenly almost palatial.

  Flowers everywhere decorated the courtyard. Huge glass bowls of imported fruits sat on white-linen-covered tables. The sunlight sent crinkles of light in ovals through the crystal tableware, and black-cassocked priests, bustling among the water pitchers and napkins, ceased when the cardinal stepped down onto the stone of the courtyard.

  “I hope Your Eminence will take pleasure in our modest luncheon,” Bishop Lyons said, gesturing toward a single table with two chairs softened by mauve appliqué pillows.

  The Nuncio sat slowly, using his hands to move the robe, the chair itself handled behind him by a priest.

  “An army travels on its stomach,” Cardinal Bellocchi said, admiring the glittering china and crystal place settings, “and so does the Vatican.”

  Bishop Lyons sat opposite the cardinal. The adjacent tables filled with the bishop’s assistants and the cardinal’s delegation, many of whom did not speak English but merely smiled at their hosts. Light conversation rose among the flowers as the first of the many decanters of wine was poured. The bishop admired the suave ease with which the Nuncio handled himself. The kind of Vatican functions and state dinners to which the Italian must be privy made the bishop envious.

  The Nuncio was studying the bishop closely.

  “How goes Christ’s work?” Cardinal Bellocchi asked.

  “I believe our records are in excellent order, Your Eminence, and are ready for examination.”

  “You mean, the archdiocese is efficiently administered?”

  Bishop Lyons beamed, but tried to remain modest.

  “It is a well-oiled machine,” he replied. “If I may be permitted that expression.”

  The Nuncio abruptly dipped his spoon into the asparagus soup and then slurped it noisily.

  “That’s it?” he asked. “A well-oiled machine?”

  Bishop Lyons felt a hot flush crawling up his neck and into his face. He was aware the conversation at the nearest table had stopped. An unreasonable panic threatened.

  “Surely that is the function of administration,” the bishop protested.

  The Nuncio grunted, allowed a priest to remove the soup bowl, and dried his lips with the linen napkin.

  Over the courtyard, the autumn birds hopped among the black branches, flashes of green and indigo feathers through the dry yellow leaves and rustling twigs.

  Cardinal Bellocchi grinned.

  “Do you see the bird with the green throat?” he asked, pointing to the oak tree over the courtyard wall.

  Bishop Lyons turned with difficulty and strained his neck, looking.

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “Look how busy he is. So full of anxiety. He hops around as though the Evil One is watching him.”

  Bishop Lyons looked into the brilliant leaves, confused. When he looked back at the Nuncio, the Italian’s dark and piercing eyes were trained on him. Somehow, the bishop understood that he was already a known quantity to Cardinal Bellocchi.

  “In such a manner have you been busy,” Cardinal Bellocchi observed. “Preparing your records for me.”

  Bishop Lyons managed a smile. “Certainly, I have not been observed by the Evil One,” he replied.

  The Nuncio said nothing. The main course was set before them, beef in wine sauce and artichokes in seasoned butter. Behind the Nuncio, animated conversations had broken out among the Italians and the bishop’s Jesuits and Franciscans. A flash of blue shot through the leaves overhead, two birds tumbling in mutual flight. Cardinal Bellocchi watched, delighted.

  “Have you ever seen birds take flight, either in joy or out of a sense of danger?” he asked.

  “Many times.”

  “Sometimes hundreds and hundreds of birds, in a single instant, less than a second even, will rise like a cloud toward the sun. It is like a burst. Suddenly, they are in the air, disciplined and in formation.”

  “It is a marvel of nature,” the bishop agreed.

  “How do you think they communicate with one another so fast? How does the leader express his perception of danger?” the Nuncio asked. “Is it telepathy?”

  “I hardly think so.”

  The main course dishes were cleared away. It had grown slightly chilly despite the brilliance of the sunshine.

  “You do not believe in telepathy?” the Nuncio inquired.

  “No.”

  “His Holiness does.”

  Bishop Lyons’s smile faded instantly.

  “Our Holy Father is a great fancier of birds,” the Nuncio continued, “as is well known. He has formed theories as to their behavior.” The Nuncio drank water from a crystal glass. “Of course, doctrinally, there is no authority for believing in telepathy.”

  “None.”

  “Nevertheless, Francis Xavier has experienced it during his priesthood.”

  “I was not aware of that, Your Eminence.”

  “His Holiness is a Sicilian,” the Nuncio said, smiling, “once the peasant Baldoni. And in Sicily, faith is like a hot breeze in the vineyards. Men live in it, move against it, all the days of their lives.”

  “But, of course—”

  “The Second Incarnation of Jesus Christ is no fairy tale to such men,” Cardinal Bellocchi interrupted. “They listen. They look for signs.”

  A long silence went by.

  “Such men move in passionate faith,” Cardinal Bellocchi continued. “Such men are vulnerable targets.”

  “Targets?” Bishop Lyons asked. �
��Of whom?”

  Cardinal Bellocchi’s dark eyes became even darker.

  “Of ancient enemies,” he said, rising.

  Instantly, both delegations were on their feet. Bishop Lyons led Cardinal Bellocchi back into the soft, brown corridors, where skylights overhead threw rectangular brilliances at their feet. Far ahead, the bishop heard his staff preparing the conference room, laying dossiers in place, pouring water into glasses, and arranging the walnut chairs around the long table.

  “The Vatican is making preparations,” confided the Nuncio.

  “Preparations?”

  “For an Ecumenical Council. On the subject of the Second Incarnation.”

  Bishop Lyons was so shocked he nearly stopped. Cardinal Bel­locchi inserted his hand into the crook of the bishop’s elbow and kept him walking smoothly.

  That the papal troubleshooter should confide one of the great political secrets of the Vatican sent the bishop’s mind whirling. Was the Nuncio an opponent of Francis Xavier? Had he perceived in the bishop of Boston a pragmatic ally?

  “If I could only tell you,” Cardinal Bellocchi whispered, “what has been going on the last few weeks inside the Vatican.”

  Bishop Lyons, still stunned by the news, only shook his head. Once an Ecumenical Council was opened, there was no control over events, doctrinally or structurally.

  “Is such a thing wise?” Bishop Lyons stammered. “Even politically? How much support can His Holiness have?”

  “All the support he needs,” Cardinal Bellocchi said with a dry bitterness. “The Holy Ghost.”

  Impending political battles rose into the bishop’s mind. All the connections to North American bishops and cardinals revolved among his calculations.

  The déjà vu returned.

  Bishop Lyons grew visibly pale, felt himself a vague and dreamlike figure in a powerful dream. Several Franciscans in the corridors noticed the whitening of his face, the darting, frightened eyes. The bishop stumbled.

  Suddenly, the déjà vu, the disorientation, became palpable as a shadow leaped from a darkened side corridor.

  Bishop Lyons whirled in confusion as a priest’s figure crashed into the entourage and sank to his knees clutching at the crimson robes of Cardinal Bellocchi.

  Cardinal Bellocchi, stammering in confusion, tried to raise the distraught priest to his feet. But Father Malcolm only sank lower, burying his face in the crimson hem, as though trying to find a hiding place among the holy men.

  “In Christ’s name, protect me!” Father Malcolm cried out.

  “But, of course, my son—”

  “The church—my church—is defiled through my body!”

  Uncomprehending, Cardinal Bellocchi placed his ringed finger against the Jesuit’s cheek, which felt alternately fevered and chilled.

  “Christ has been defeated!” Father Malcolm shouted to Cardinal Bellocchi. “Through me!”

  Cardinal Bellocchi paled but did not retreat. Several Franciscans crossed themselves. The turmoil was so acute that three Jesuits moved to carry the lunatic away but were resisted by the Franciscans.

  “Such a thing is not possible!” yelled a young Franciscan angrily.

  “The lamp lit by Christ reeks of corruption!” Father Malcolm retorted, rising and finding himself tangled in protective arms and cassocks.

  “The image of the goathead dominates the church and mocks us all!” Father Malcolm shouted.

  Bishop Lyons’s angry hand whirled Father Malcolm around. “What image?” he demanded, the veins of his face extended in anger.

  Father Malcolm gazed at the bishop with a peculiar mixture of savage anger and helpless pleading.

  “The image of Him who now dominates the church! Because of you! I needed help! And you wouldn’t give it to me!”

  Bishop Lyons, paralyzed by the effrontery, flushed deeply red, pushed very close to Father Malcolm, whispering.

  “Do you even know where you are now, Eamon Malcolm?” he rasped. “Do you realize that this is Cardinal Bellocchi, the papal Nuncio?”

  Father Malcolm defiantly threw off the bishop’s hands. He pointed an accusing finger at the bishop.

  “The stigmata of the Antichrist,” he said with a horrified conviction, “flourish in the church you ignored!”

  Bishop Lyons, taken aback by the vehemence of the denunciation, humiliated in front of the Nuncio, then did a very curious thing. He looked down one darkened corridor and then, craning his neck, looked down the other, as if in fear of being secretly observed.

  Cardinal Bellocchi stepped firmly in front of Father Malcolm and held high the glittering pectoral cross from his own robes.

  “Do you affirm that Jesus Christ is the true Son of Our Lord God and that Francis Xavier is His vicar on earth?”

  Father Malcolm pulled away, back into the restraining arms.

  “I cannot affirm,” he muttered weakly. “He has taken my soul away.”

  “And yet you have escaped to holy men,” observed the cardinal.

  “To warn you all,” Father Malcolm said, rising, “Christ has been evicted from Golgotha Falls!”

  Several Franciscans held their hands over their ears against the blasphemy.

  “Affirm,” ordered Cardinal Bellocchi, pushing the crucifix up to Father Malcolm’s face.

  “I affirm,” he said hoarsely, both dominated and mesmerized by the gold, glinting sculpture of Christ in His agony.

  “Kiss in obedience,” Cardinal Bellocchi said.

  The Franciscans wrestled Father Malcolm toward the heavy sculpted cross on a gold chain. Father Malcolm seemed to turn his head slightly away, then slowly his pursed lips touched the cool gold. Tears ran freely, abruptly, down his cheeks.

  “I have been running from Satan,” Father Malcolm wept, “since dawn.”

  “Let Christ now be your refuge.”

  Disoriented, Father Malcolm found himself looking on the shocked and curious faces. Then he was stumbling down corridors, past floral arrangements and stained-glass windows. Though his feet functioned, two Franciscans escorted him under both arms into the depths of the episcopal residence. At the threshold of the bishop’s chapel, in the incense and soft candle glow near the confessional booth, he fainted into the arms of the two Franciscans.

  In the corridor, profoundly shocked, Cardinal Bellocchi stood with the bishop.

  “Where is this church?” the Nuncio demanded.

  “North of here, in the town of Golgotha Falls. It has ceased to function these many years due to a dwindling parish and . . .”

  Cardinal Bellocchi’s eyes narrowed. “And . . .”

  “And a terrible tragedy that befell the original priest, Father Bernard Lovell.”

  “I will want to know all the details of this tragedy,” the Nuncio said.

  “Yes, Your Eminence. The records have been kept.”

  Cardinal Bellocchi gazed dolefully down the corridor, along the path of the departed Jesuit.

  “This is an excellent young man,” the Nuncio continued. “Why did you send him alone to danger?”

  “He seemed to strong,” the bishop apologized. “His faith was so very passionate.”

  The Nuncio glared at him.

  “Of course,” he said savagely. “Such men are the most vulnerable targets.”

  Bishop Lyons swallowed heavily under the Nuncio’s rebuke. “I shall close the church immediately,” he promised. “And the Jesuit will confess and be absolved. Indeed, I shall have him guarded for his own safety in the seminary.”

  The Nuncio eyed the bishop with great disappointment.

  “Your well-oiled machine,” he said sternly, “was your own fantasy!”

  After the conference, preparing the agenda for the Quebec pastoral visit in the next week, the Nuncio left for a meeting of lay Catholics in Baltimore. Bishop Lyons retained the extraordinary impression of being simultaneously the cardinal’s political ally and his spiritual enemy.

  Disturbed, the bishop went to the chapel. There he was told that the Jesuit h
ad collapsed prior to confession and had been taken to the seminary dormitory where he was asleep.

  That evening, Bishop Lyons dined alone, served by a silent valet.

  The archives of the diocese were closed to everyone except the episcopal authority and several secretaries of the staff. In the green metal filing bins and wooden boxes were correspondence and edicts since 1745. It was a long, drafty chamber under the residence, lit now with hanging electric bulbs, like a morgue. In those archives, Bishop Lyons had once searched for and found the file of the psychopathic priest Bernard K. Lovell.

  Lovell was a graceless, poorly educated, crippled boy, son of a barrel-maker and undistinguished by scholarly ambition. The correspondence revealed a mediocre personality fueled by bitterness, not love or a sense of mission.

  The archives concealed poorly the abject complicity of the diocese: The abnormal Lovell had been left to die in sin, and the church at Golgotha Falls left to disintegrate, until even the financial records grew scanty.

  Why? Because in the dioceses of the Roman Catholic Church existed hundreds, if not thousands, of derelict churches. Unfunded, unsupervised, they were breeding grounds of delusion and blasphemy. There the gullible faithful manufactured images of their own despair and guilt and foisted them on parishioners or, failing that, onto their own frightened imaginations. Golgotha Falls was no different, thought Bishop Lyons.

  Except that Bernard Lovell, in his last coherent letter, had used the same phrase as Eamon Malcolm: Christ was defeated at Golgotha Falls.

  It was not ecclesiastically possible.

  Bishop Lyons took a chicken fragment from between his teeth. The archives did report several odd occurrences around the parishes in February 1914. Certain cases of hysteria. Questionable signs of the Second Coming. Rather like those Eamon Malcolm had spoken of.

  The case of James Farrell Malcolm made no sense at all. A white-haired Renaissance scholar, connected through his mother’s side to several judges and well-placed attorneys, the old man had been a favorite of the Boston literati. His bon mots were widely quoted and his expertise on Titian made him one of the board members of the Boston Museum of Art.

  The bishop’s acute memory plucked out the last letter ever received from James Farrell Malcolm.