The Heretics of St. Possenti

by Rolf Nelson

  Epiphany.

  The monthly excise taxes they remitted had grown steadily each quarter. The layers of shell companies, confusing as they were, were to hide things from the Church much more than the IRS.

  If any higher-ups wanted to question those facts ever again, he’d recommend in the strongest terms possible they send a single underweight and geeky-looking accountant with a prominent pocket-protector and no weapons here, driving a compact car with no window tinting, to politely ask about checking the books. Preferably after arranging the appointment over the phone a week in advance and having a specific contact who was expecting him. He’d resign before he participated in a raid on this abbey personally. He didn’t like or understand these Jesus freaks, and he liked his job… but he liked his life far more.

  Medallion

  Look for yourself, and you will find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. But look for Christ, and you will find Him, and with Him everything else thrown in.

  —C. S. Lewis

  Brother Hugh was leaving, with four other founding brothers and nine more recently made monks. They had gotten their heads, acts, and skillsets together. He’d been in residence for three and a half years. The new abbey still wasn’t finished: with nearly four hundred feet of rock forming each outside wall and arching cathedral-like church roof, it looked much like a small and ancient city on the side that was done. Time felt as if it had flown by, but far more had been done than he had expected to accomplish. They all felt good about what they had done, and their prospects looked good going forward. The monks they had met and worked side by side with were as close as anyone they’d been in combat with. It was different, but still, there was a deep bond that would be hard to explain to anyone who had not been there. Everyone had learned a massive amount, spent some time as a teacher as well as a student, gotten healthy, learned a marketable skill, gotten his ego in check, and regained the self-confidence to go out into the world and to make it a better place.

  He looked out across the fields he’d helped plant and tend—orchards, lines of berry bushes, grape vines, rows of veggies, greenhouses and cloches, numerous chicken tractors and rock piles. He was really a part of something significant here. He had made a difference. He now understood his place in the universe.

  Abbot Cranberry was seeing the fourteen of them off—they had their own vans and buses now to drive them into town to the Greyhound stop—and as they gathered around, he handed each one an object. It was a simple thing, a minted bronze medallion with a red and black Possenti cross on the obverse. The reverse had inscribed

  Legio I

  Cohort I

  Centuria II

  Centurion

  “Mickey had them made. They’re chipped, too, so you can encode data on them if you want. Sort of a special calling card, or a challenge coin. A small symbol of service, a way to recognize a fellow traveler, something you can give to someone with a message if you are sending that person here or need help. Not a traditionally monastic thing to do, but humans often need little symbols, and not everyone will understand saying a rosary when you need a moment of calm.”

  “Does everyone get one of these?” Hugh asked.

  Thomas nodded, and he handed one to each of the departing monks, giving them a quick blessing as he did so and explaining in between. “Yes. Those who serve here, become qualified monks, and leave in good grace. They are not to be given out lightly. If someone comes back here with yours, we know it means you are dead or in desperate need, or that he is a special recruit you sent here for training, in which case we’ll ship the medallion back to you.”

  “Very cool,” said Clint, examining it closely before flipping it into the air with a crisp pinnnnng. “Not going to ever lose this thing to a bar bet. That’s for sure!”

  “No, I don’t imagine you will. Now then… Do you all have all your things?”

  They each hefted their small duffels or packs. Belongings were meager, and their wallets not much heavier… but at least they were not lighter. All but two of them had at least an interview lined up, and four of them had jobs they’d already remote-interviewed for and were theirs to lose.

  All were optimistic. They were all returning to the same area. Indeed, five of them lived within a few miles of one another, so they planned on getting together regularly.

  Frank Bunt was returning with them to pick up another gaggle of lost souls. He looked slightly older and grayer than when they’d first met him, but he was as spry and quietly upbeat as ever. Dr. Hines was still in residence. He found the addiction recovery research fascinating, the results more so, and the company and location very much to his liking. He wasn’t about to take the vows himself, but he’d met a local widow, and things looked like they were getting serious.

  Hugh thought it felt strange to be wearing ordinary street clothes. He’d gotten used to the loose, comfortable, and highly durable habit. Oh, well. He’d get used to them, just like he had gotten used to the .40 S&W on his hip. The men he was with were used to silence, so there wasn’t a lot of noise for the trip back, each lost in his own thought or cramming for an interview. Or just watching the nation’s hinterlands and cities roll by as they returned to the world.

  Safe Space

  A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

  —John Wayne

  Mickey was taking a break from wedding preparations and getting ready for meeting night. He’d been busy helping move her things into his apartment; she would have little more than a bed and a few personal effects at her place on the wedding day. It would be easy to bring the last of her things over the following day. Her lease was up two days after that, and then they’d take a short honeymoon. Consolidating households wasn’t hard as he didn’t have much, but he had a better apartment in a better neighborhood, and she’d not accumulated many things in her three busy years out of college. She’d wanted to move in entirely much earlier—well before they were even considering getting married—but he was firm: no sex or cohabitation until marriage. Yes, it was old school, he agreed, and she thought it rather strange to have to explain to her friends and family, but he was certain it was right.

  The meeting happened to be the third Monday this month. His fiancée watched him getting ready to go; it was noted on the calendar simply as “meeting,” so it wasn’t a surprise to her. He’d told her before—the short-and-simple version—what his regular get-togethers with other monks-errant were: mutual support, networking, prayer, training, and time where mutual interests were talked about and he could just be himself around guys he trusted with his life.

  Kaylee looked at him, glowering. “Why can’t you take me with you?”

  “I’ve explained that. Same reasons as before.”

  “But I want to meet your friends.”

  “Schedule a barbecue. We can invite some of them over. You’ll meet them at the wedding, anyway. Bill and Pete will be at the practice, too. They’re groomsmen, you know.”

  “I mean I want to see them at one of these mysterious meetings. If you loved me, you’d take me.”

  “No.” Mickey’s voice was firm. He wasn’t about to play that game.

  “Are you meeting at a strip club or something?” she teased, less than half-serious.

  Mickey looked at her. It was not the usual pleasant go-along-to-get-along expression he’d worn most of the time since they met. A hint of anger lit the corners of his eyes. “Do. Not. Push it. This is a meeting for former monks only. We are there for each other, not as a wives and girlfriends social club.”

  “What? Are you afraid I’ll pollute your precious he-man club?”

  “Kaylee, I care for you very much. But there are some things I do not expect you to understand any more than there are some things I’ll never understand about women in general or you in particular, and you just have to accept this as my safe space where you are not allowed. It’s where I can help my friends or unload my burdens and get honest feedback and ideas without them weighi
ng on you. Or being weighed in on by you. It’s not a reflection on you. I’d say the same to anyone else who was not at the abbey. But if you cannot accept this part of me, if you cannot take my word for it that you are not welcome at the meeting for a whole host of reasons—”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it would change the dynamic every bit as much as a man walking into the ladies’ locker room at the gym….”

  “Drop it, or you’ll do what?” she challenged.

  “Then you will walk out that door forever. I will deposit your belonging on the doorstep, change the locks, say a prayer, move on like Lot’s wife should have, and never look back.”

  Kaylee’s jaw hit the floor. “You’d leave over a little thing like this!?” she yelled, incredulous.

  “Yes. I would kick anyone to the curb over this.” His voice was quiet, careful. “Because it isn’t a little thing. It implies you do not trust me, nor understand me, nor accept the things you can’t understand. And if that is true, then it would be far better to cut this off while you still have time to find someone to your liking. If you just need an easily controlled errand-boy, I’m replaceable. You are still young enough and cute, so finding one shouldn’t be too tough. If God thinks I should have a wife, one who will support me rather than fight me, then you are replaceable, too.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Would you like it if I tagged along on your ladies’ nights out?”

  “What? No, of course not. But that’s different!”

  Mickey shook his head. “In more ways than you might know, yes. But in one way it’s identical. You and your friends would change your behavior. You know you would. You wouldn’t want my opinion added at all. You’d reject anything I said out of hand. So. Decision time.

  “Are you going to drop it, here, now, and forever? Or do I reschedule the meeting for tomorrow, call the police to send an officer to act as eviction witness, post a cancellation notice for the wedding, and help you move your stuff as far as the car starting in the next five minutes?”

  Kaylee looked at him closely and saw the glint in his eyes and the set of his jaw. She knew he was dead serious. Surprisingly, she found that fact both frightening and reassuring. He continued. “If I had to move on a moment’s notice, I know that every single one of the men I’m going to meet tonight would have a couch, a cot, a backseat, or somewhere for me to crash until I got things sorted out again. Every. Single. One. Any day of the week. They are brothers in more than one sense. Do you have backup like that? You know I’ll always have a roof. Always. Somewhere. Maybe not a grand roof, maybe not the latest style, but it will be there. If you load your car at the end of the month, do you have a place other than a parking lot to drive to, where you can shower and get a bite without resentment or being hurried out the door as an unwelcome third wheel?” Her expression gave all the answer she could have ever put in words.

  He continued, quietly, no longer challenging or angry. “Let this thing be, and my roof is yours. You’re a good woman; you don’t have a man-card to punch or anything to prove to anyone. I’m more than happy to hear your input on many things, and you are welcome to meet any of my friends someplace else at some other time. But a household can only have one leader. God knows I will not always be right, but I cannot—I will not—fight the world and you, too. No man can do that and win. And I will walk away before I die trying.”

  Kaylee said nothing for a moment and then gave him a hug and a kiss on the lips. “Have a good time, dear. Can you pick up some coffee on the way home? You are getting low.”

  Mickey smiled. He liked that look she wore. He was likely to get more than coffee after they were married. “Sure. Be happy to.” He was whistling as he headed for the Howling Puffin.

  Recruit

  In all history the only bright rays cutting the gloom of oppression have come from men who would rather get hurt than give in.

  —Col. Jeff Cooper

  The U.S. Army recruiter had seen discharged men return to reenlist. With a bad economy, it was not uncommon, even with another insane war starting to heat up. Insanity and a paycheck with three squares was more attractive than civilian insanity and a life on the street. But as he reviewed the record of the peaceful-looking man who sat in front of his desk, it was atypical. The man did not appear desperate in the least. He looked tanned and fit, without the rough edges or the smell of the homeless. He’d been separated nearly four years, and most re-ups were in less than four months after getting out. Almost never was it this long. In four years they either got straightened out and got a job, were hopelessly homeless, or were dead.

  And five deployments? Airborne? The ’Stans and Sudan? Three years of college and still enlisted? Purple Hearts and more? But he looked healthy and mellow.

  “How’s the knee?”

  “Much better. Surgery and rehab, physical therapy. As good as a thirty-two-year-old knee ever is.”

  “Good to hear.” Staff Sergeant Vayner pushed himself back in his chair. “I don’t normally discourage volunteers, but… you look like you have better choices than light infantry.”

  “Certainly, I have other choices. But I have prayed long and hard, and this is the right choice. My path is clear. Back to my old battalion as a sniper.”

  “Hmmph. Not everyone passes sniper school, you know, Mr. McGee. If you wash out there, they can assign you wherever they want to put you.”

  “I am confident that particular item will not be an obstacle.”

  “They all say that.”

  “Most people have not spent time where I was.”

  “What was your last marksmanship score before your DD214?”

  “Expert. And I have gotten much better since then.”

  “You’re pushing the age limit for light infantry.”

  “But I’m not past it. And the younger men need a steady hand and patient leader when moving or waiting in ambush.”

  “True enough, Amos. True enough. Normally, you’d need a commander’s recommendation.”

  “My last company CO died two days before I left. The XO knew me; I’m sure he would remember me.”

  “Let me see what we can find…” Vayner tapped away at his computer for a minute. “The next open slot is in three weeks. You can catch a one-week refresher billet in twelve days and then fly to Benning. 3rd of the 9th is deployed right now. Can’t tell you where, of course, but they just left, so they’ll be there a while…. Tell you what. I’ll see if I can arrange a bit of range time with a Guard unit. If you can pass the range qual and pass the physical next week as well as the psych eval, and if I can track down your former XO for a positive reco, then I can slide you into that slot.”

  “That will be fine. Just fine.”

  * * *

  The range officer looked at the targets spread out on the table between them. They didn’t look like recruit targets. They looked like advertisements for high-end ammunition. Nobody shot groups like that in real life. He looked at the quiet and unassuming man whom he’d been asked to give a quick qualification test to. The RO looked round for hidden cameras to see if someone was playing a joke on him.

  “Pass. Perfect score. Why do you need ’em?”

  “Get into sniper school.”

  “Looks like you were already there.”

  “Sort of. But I need to go to the real one.”

  “Need to, eh?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  * * *

  Major True returned SSG McGee’s salute. “You came back. When I got the email from the recruiter, I almost thought it was a joke, considering the circumstances you left under.”

  “People and circumstances change, sir.”

  Major True looked at the face of the man who stood before him. He looked as much at peace as he used to look wound up. Relaxed and poised. He’d always been a good, hardworking man but was always second-guessing and trying to think too many steps ahead. Now he stood with the calm of inner peace and absolute confidence that he w
as doing the right thing. It was good to see, and he wished he could have turned the sergeant around earlier himself. “Anything I need to know? Stories that shed some light on how you came back here?”

  “Not really, sir. I got my act together, and this was the right path.”

  “Okay then. So be it. 1st platoon will be going out in two days. Each squad is going separately to set up parallel ambushes or observation patrols. At least a week. Maybe two. The squad leader will have the overview and supplies. The Ell-Tee will have the details, and you’ll need to meet your spotter.”

  “How’d the spot open up if I may ask?”

  “Popper. He lost part of his foot. He’ll live, but with a spiffy next-gen bio-mech foot.”

  “Ah. I will pray for him.”

  The major looked at the man who had never sounded particularly religious as far as he could remember, but with so many men passing through his command… it was possible he’d forgotten, so he dismissed it. “It happens. Just bad luck.”

  “Perhaps. Time will tell if it was good or bad luck for the rest of us.”

  * * *

  Amos and his spotter had lain, silent and unmoving, for a long time. The other three remaining members of their squad kept a watch in other directions to ensure they were not surprised. Two more had been injured in a brief but furious ambush and firefight four days earlier and medevacked out, along with their local interpreter, who had also been injured. That skirmish left the jihadis with seventeen dead militiamen, and the outgoing helo left with four prisoners, the three injured men, and considerable intelligence about a series of weapons caches. SSG McGee’s spotter had been impressed with the patience, calm, and skill his new triggerman possessed. He’d nixed a plan to call for air support on one target, saying with confidence that he could drop the two military age males at 780 meters with no problem and eliminate any collateral damage. It was a tricky shot through a gap between two cement walls, and it was risky because of the noncombatants standing next to the target and the pressure to ensure both targets were taken out, but it went down without a hitch. The humility with which the older man simply said, “I had confidence in your wind calls,” said far more about him than any boast or range score ever could.