by A. Sparrow
Chapter 34: The Pope
Sabonis’ eyes track the guard with the machine pistol as he lounges on the precious cat. “Get my hands on a long bow, that bastard’s going down,” he says.
“But that would be murder,” I say, as if murder were immoral or even possible in the land of the dead.
“No shit, Sherlock,” says Sabonis. “Bet it’s not the first time for that punk.”
We approach the throng of onlookers, not quite as damaged as the residents of Gihon, but they show plenty of wear and tear: missing fingers, teeth, eyes.
“Any one seen Hector Delgado?” Sabonis bellows.
The people murmur amongst themselves.
“Anybody?” says Sabonis.
“He vas vit da Pope,” says a slender man, trouser-less, but wearing a shirt with long tails.
“Could of told you that myself,” says Sabonis. “Thanks anyway.”
The crowd parts. Some follow as we pass the first rank of houses lining the beachfront.
The houses behind them are embedded in the ground, clinging to a constant, level plane as the valley floor rises, as if a landslide struck and they never dug out. Soon the rooftops are only knee-high. Walkways plunge into trenches shored with timbers and walls of stone and brick. The town transforms into a subterranean network of alleys and catacombs.
“What if he’s down there?” I say as we follow the rim of a trench.
“Ain’t his style,” says Sabonis. “Up here, no one can fuck with him … ‘cept us.”
The rooftops become flush with the ground and turfed over. They remind me of pictures of the subterranean stone churches of Ethiopia—buildings carved out of bedrock.
We walk above the fray milling through a small plaza with market stalls displaying fish and fruit and nuts along some miscellaneous detritus of the living world combed from beaches—poly sacks, single sneakers and clear plastic bottles.
A few people venture above their roofs to tend gardens and orchards, growing cabbages, carrots and beets, among the trees—olives, filberts and plums.
The people stout enough to venture so high nevertheless wheeze and whinge as they work, backs slumped, feet dragging like Himalayan mountaineers. Some must retreat to the alley staircases to recuperate. Envious eyes track us as we stroll with ease among the groves.
I spot two of the spear wielders tracking our progress from the trench below. They have tailed us all the way from the beach, neither daring to surface.
Farther up, we come upon a row of stilted wooden platforms. I mistake them for drying racks but people lay atop many, some sprawl listless, others bob and pray to the orb. They moan and groan and cry as we pass. A woman carries a bucket of water from platform to platform, refilling bowls.
“What’s all this?” I say.
“Penance,” says Sabonis.
“For what? Who?”
“They just do it,” says Sabonis. “Nobody’s makin’ em. Pope don’t give a crap.”
“This is going to sound stupid,” I say. “But is the Pope Catholic?”
“Actually … no,” says Sabonis. “It’s just a name. He’s just some Fringer able to stick his nose a little higher than the rest. That’s all it takes to go far in a place like this. Was a time folks like you and me’d be treated like Kings here. That’s why all that bullshit on the docks sticks in my craw.”
We lose the men tailing us when the trench narrows and disappears into a tunnel. For a good long stretch, the ground stays unbroken before opening up into another, deeper plaza with a massive, gnarled maple at its center.
“Pope’s friend Yoshiko lives here,” says Sabonis. “She’s technically a Cardinal. But this Pope don’t bother with formality.”
Sabonis whistles into the pit. It echoes through the grottoes leading off the plaza. A woman in blue appears.
“Marco?”
She trots up a set of stairs cut into the wall of the trench and dashes into his arms.
“How ya been?” says Sabonis.
“Same old, same old. You know how it is.” She looks Asian, but speaks like someone American-born and bred.
“Listen. I’m trying to find Delgado.”
“He was just here,” says Yoshiko.
“Where’s he now?”
“Don’t know. He may have gone.”
“That rat fucker took my cat. I want it back.”
“Why you telling me? Tell it to the Pope.”
“Where is he? High chapel?”
“Where else?” she says.
“Delgado with him?” says Sabonis.
“I doubt it.” Yoshiko smiles and puts her hand on Dan’s hip, coaxes him to turn. Dan complies, reluctantly. “New girlfriend, I see? This one’s pretty.”
“Dan’s … just a friend,” says Sabonis. He squints down towards the harbor. “So where the fuck’s Delgado?” Trees and buildings block our view. “Dang. Can’t see the docks from here. Do me a favor, Dan. Climb up and see if the cat’s still there while I run up to the chapel and see the Pope.” He points to a building near the headwall—the only structure away from the beach front that rises above the natural surface of the valley floor.
“Um … sure,” I say.
I cross through a patch of stumps to the valley wall. It’s steep but walk-able. I climb through a mix of creeping willow, blueberry and heather. As I rise, more of the harbor creeps into view. I spot the dark indentation of the river, the gazebo. The catamaran sits snug and quiescent, bobbing against the pier.
Sabonis, halfway to the chapel, shouts up at me. “He there?”
“Yup.” I give a thumbs-up.
As I start to descend, tightness grips my chest. It feels like the stirrings of an asthma attack or at least a deep cough … or a heart attack? I wait for it to resolve, but the sensation remains. A pain like an ice cream headache crescendos deep behind my ears.
This discomfort resembles what I felt on Mt. Abdiel, except before it hadn’t hit me until I had climbed hundreds of meters above the beach. Here, I’m barely fifty meters up. I climb a little higher. The symptoms worsen.
Something has changed. The realization sends my heart pounding. My palms begin to seep. I scramble back down.
I reach the valley floor. The urge to cough vanishes. The pressure eases in my head. I run to the chapel and enter. Inside, there is no ceiling, no floor. Columns support a ring of stone framing the orb like an eye in a monocle. The floor falls away into a vast circular pit, like a sinkhole or a well. Stone stairs spiral down the walls. Sabonis and Yoshiko have almost reached the bottom.
I descend after them, hugging the outer wall because the pit side has no rail. Rituals of greeting boom through the pit. Sabonis strains to be cordial but he’s ready to burst.
My steps fall into a rhythmic trot. Entranced, I reach bottom before I expect, stumble and fall onto a floor checkered with squares of reddish slate. River stones, one per square, cover the floor in clumps and circles and amoeboid blotches. More stones lay sorted by color and piled around the wall.
Furnished alcoves pock the walls, some dark, some illuminated with oil lamps giving off the odor of burning pork fat. An arched tunnel connects to a trench system and the rest of the subterranean city.
Sabonis and Yoshiko are across the pit, speaking to a tall man standing in the shaft of light thrown down by the orb. The man—the Pope, I assume—wears a baggy tunic that drags on the floor. He holds a large, pink river stone and a small brown jar with a yellow lid.
“So what’s the story?” says Sabonis, turning to me as I rise off the floor.
“He’s still docked,” I say.
“News to me,” says the Pope. His accent is very British, very Oxford. “I thought he had left this morning. But I’m not the harbor master, am I? He seemed a bit worried about Facilitators. The orchard tenders have spotted a few roaming the heights these last few days.”
“That bastard tell you he stole my boat?” says Sabonis.
“Stolen? Hector said he purchased it from
you.”
“Purchased, my ass,” says Sabonis. “He stole it outright. Slaughtered the poor Squatters I left to watch it.”
“Shameful, if true, says the Pope. “But that’s between you and him. He’s never wronged me.”
“That’s because Hector thinks you’re Christian,” says Sabonis.
“Well … I am Christian. Anglican, in fact … or … was, anyway. It’s quite charming. Inspiring, you might say. How some manage to stay loyal to their faith, in spite of all they see here.”
“Cretins,” says Sabonis.
“Now, now,” says the Pope. His eyes turn to me. “And who’s this lovely creature?”
“That’s … Dan,” says Sabonis, looking sour.
“Dan, is it?” His eyes twinkle. “I see. How do you do? I am Howard Jenkins. Pope Jenkins, though I’m not actually a Pope, per se, but that’s what some of the flock prefer to call me. Tradition, you see. Mayor, might be more fitting, but … whatever keeps them happy.”
He cradles the stone and jar in one arm and we shake hands. I notice the label on the jar. It reads “Marmite.”
I try to make sense of all the river stones scattered across the floor. Were they some sort of census or map of the Pope’s flock? Rune stones?
“What’s with all the rocks?” I say.
“Go,” says the Pope.
“Excuse me?” I say, taken aback.
“It’s a game, called Go, or at least a variation of it. Six colors of stone allow us to employ up to six forces. Makes for more interesting strategy – alliances and defections and such. Only … I wish I could find someone other than Yoshi willing to play. Our game’s gone into the doldrums since Cohen and Ravi bowed out. Would you like to play? The rules are simple.”
“No thanks, Pope,” says Sabonis. “We gotta get back down to the harbor before Delgado ditches us.”
A harsh clanging echoes through the tunnels and reverberates through the pit.
I flinch. “What the heck is that?”
“Someone’s sighted the Caretaker,” says Yoshiko. “But he’s days early. We don’t have an offering prepared.”
“Well, you had better whip something together, quick,” says the Pope.
I turn and whisper to Sabonis. “What’s all this about?”
“Cato,” says Sabonis. “Folks here call him the Caretaker. Not sure what he takes care of. All I seen him do is circle the damn island.”
“Cato is the oldest soul on Lethe,” says the Pope. “He has his own little cult formed around him here in Zion. I don’t partake of it myself, but … we do have to humor the masses, no?”
Yoshiko rummages through some baskets and crates in one of the alcoves.
“Find anything suitable, Yoshi?”
“Filberts,” she says.
“Didn’t we give him filberts last time?”
“It’s either that or moldy fish,” says Yoshi.
The Pope sighs. He smiles at us sheepishly. “Can one of you do us a favor and take a small offering up the slope? We usually recruit a volunteer from town, but we’ve been caught unprepared. I’d do it myself, but I’m afraid my stamina isn’t what it used to be.”
“Sorry Pope,” says Sabonis. “We gotta go.”
“It won’t take long. It’s just a short climb up to his path.”
“I’ll do it,” I say.
Sabonis turns abruptly, narrows his eyes and shakes his head at me. “I don’t think so,” he says.
“I said … I would do it,” I repeat, with emphasis.
The discomfort I felt in my earlier climb still gnaws at me. I’m anxious to see if my sudden intolerance of altitude was imagined.
“Oh, don’t fuss, Marco,” says the Pope. “She’ll be back in a jiff. Yoshi. Assemble those filberts, pronto!”