by Alex Thomas
In the evening after chatting with the Holy Father, she returned to her room and was overcome with the sudden urge to sleep. An iron weight seeped into her bones, taking hold of every single cell in her body. She had never felt such a need for sleep before. She could hardly wait, just barely making it before falling into bed.
The world around her disappeared and took on new forms and colours. A blustery wind blew across her face. Before her was an enormous lake. Catherine knew immediately that she stood on the western shore of Lake Tiberias, also known as the Sea of Galilee. She saw fishing boats returning to shore.
A man in a white linen robe tied with a belt made of the finest gold stood next to her. His body was like chrysolite, his face like a flash of light. Catherine recognised him to be one of the four angels at God’s side. The angel guarded over a little girl with chestnut-brown hair playing on the shore and whose father was helping unload one of the boats. Only the girl who was now playing amongst the stacked crates and Catherine seemed to see the man with the flaming face.
"Without her help, without her wisdom and testimony, there will be no change," said the angel, turning part of his attention to Catherine. He pointed to the child. His eyes blazed like torches. The work depends on her."
Catherine wondered what he meant by work. "Who is she?"
"The mirror through which the world will soon see itself, even if her words are announced through another. You have already met her once in your dream."
One of the towering fish crates slipped, sliding toward the child. Catherine had barely noticed she was in danger when the man stopped the crate with a quick hand movement.
"I don’t remember having met this girl before," said Catherine, realising now that the child might have died if not for the help of the angel.
"You spoke with her. Last night. You spoke of darkness and of light. Of hope for that which is coming."
"Maria?"
The man with the fiery eyes nodded. "Maria Magdalene."
"But she is still a child!"
"In her heart she will always remain one. In the name of truth. In the name of unity between heaven and Earth. She is the first chapter of the New Testament."
Catherine looked at the angel. She suddenly realised the being next to her had no gender. His fiery face encircled with golden hair was equally masculine and feminine. Most likely the child Maria had seen the angel like that from the beginning.
"What purpose do these dreams serve?" asked Catherine straight out. She knew all too well that a lot of human fears and desires, even mental illnesses, came to light in dreams. It was quite possible that she was slowly losing her mind.
The corners of the angel’s mouth curled into a smile. "What do you think?"
"They are supposed to show me something. But what?"
"These dreams are more than just dreams, Catherine," explained the angel calmly. "They are memories."
"Memories? But what I see lies far in the past. How can I remember something that I never experienced myself?"
"Who says that they are your memories?"
Catherine stared at the angel, nearly expecting him to turn into Cardinal Benelli at any moment. But it couldn’t possibly be Benelli’s memory. But whose then? One stemming from the cosmic memory in which all past, present and future events are held? There were theories, also within Lux, that psychically gifted people were able to tap into this cosmic memory. That is how esoterics, for instance, try to explain paranormal phenomena such as clairvoyance. Was it possible that Benelli’s additional energy now allowed Catherine to participate in this memory?
The angel took her hand without burning her and they entered a new scene. Catherine suddenly found herself in a village where children were running around simple houses.
"Those boys are Jacob, John, Judas and Simon," explained the angel, letting go of her hand.
"Jesus’ disciples…" said Catherine reverently.
"Jesus’ brothers," explained the angel, walking toward the crowd of children.
It was only now that the young woman saw the halos that surrounded each child. Just like with little Maria. "And where is Jesus?" she asked.
The angel pointed to a somewhat isolated cottage. "He has a heavy heart. He has been tasked with the role as saviour. Besides he has seen a hint of his future. Not even Judas could console him." The children danced around the angel except for one boy who stared at the angel and Catherine with curiosity.
"That is Judas," explained her companion calmly. "He has been tasked with the role of traitor." The angel stuck out his hand, making the boy come toward him as if in a trance, all the while looking at the young women with uncertainty in his eyes.
The angel made a gesture, a gleaming flash came down from heaven and the child’s sadness fell away.
Catherine, who had witnessed everything with great calm, returned to her question: "I still don’t understand what these dreams are trying to tell me."
Her companion looked at her with great affection. "You know the objective, but you don’t know the true path. You will soon understand. Go now and get some rest. You have seen enough for today."
The strange world around Catherine disappeared, as did the angel. But when she awoke from her dream, she could still smell the Sea of Galilee and feel the blustery wind in her face. She blinked, pulled herself together, sat up and looked at her surroundings. The expensive wallpaper, the antique wardrobe, the shelf, the table, the chair, the bed on which she lay, the crucifix on the adjacent wall…she was clearly back in her room at the Apostolic Palace and no longer in Palestine during the times of Maria Magdalene. Her gaze rested on the travel clock on the nightstand. Not a minute had passed or the clock had stood still.
For a moment she toyed with the idea of sending Ben an email or trying to chat with him. But then she remembered where she was. No, it was better not to have a long discussion over the Internet. A brief text message would have to do. Straight away the next morning she would send Ben a message. She knew exactly what to write: "Gabriel was here. Regards, Catherine."
40
West Bengal, Calcutta
Monsignor Nicola deRossi left the half-empty passenger plane and walked down the docked metal stairs to the oily ground of the Calcutta airport. This time he was disguised as an Italian businessman and gourmet looking for unknown Indian spices that he wanted to sell to high-end restaurants in the rich Western world.
Apart from the smell of kerosene, he already had the impression on the tarmac that the odour of the mega-city was starting to waft over him. Because there were no direct flights from Rome to Calcutta, the master’s agent arranged for deRossi to fly via Germany. That way he could fly as a wealthy businessman from Frankfurt to West Bengal with Lufthansa.
He didn’t need any tips while traveling to Calcutta as he had been to the city several times in the past few years. The place satisfied certain urges he had quite well. Even the master profited considerably from the corruption the Moloch’s poverty brought forth. The master had contacts worldwide. And so it was that one of his Indian agents stood waiting already at the exit.
DeRossi thought again about what he could have squeezed out of Abel. Despite his intensive interrogation, he got little information out of him. All that effort had been for naught really, except perhaps for the pleasure of killing him. On the other hand through his intervention he had learned that Hawlett had now included Benelli’s death as a part of the investigation and that made deRossi most curious. Not to mention this "LUKE" thingy about which Abel could unfortunately tell him nothing. The master most certainly knew what was behind it.
DeRossi took a deep breath. He had yet to inform the master about his unauthorised nocturnal operation. If he really thought about it, he didn’t intend to tell him any time soon. That wimp Hawlett should air the secret about LUKE for him.
The Monsignor got into the Indian agent’s unmarked car. His plane had landed at an off-hour so the Chowringhee, the Calcutta’s major traffic artery, wouldn’t be too congested. He
would be spared endless traffic jams with solid lines of cars beeping unnervingly and overflowing sidewalks filled with too many people. Even the unbearable heat and humidity were held at bay by the car’s Russian made air conditioner until they reached the equally air conditioned hotel.
DeRossi had busied himself with Sister Silvia’s biography during the flight. He studied the life of each of his victims with near pathological precision. In the end he imagined Sister Silvia’s life in Calcutta to be like a cheap Hollywood film in which good triumphs over evil. The reality, however, was a lot different.
In the film Sister Silvia and Mother Teresa knew one another. DeRossi wondered how much truth there was to the story about Mother Teresa’s exorcism in the exclusive interview that the Sicilian Salesian priest Rosario Stroscio gave the Italian newspaper Oggi. Had Sister Silvia been privy to the exorcism? After all, she had worked with the missionary for many years in the leper colony Shanti Nagar. It was said the two women had even been friends. Merely the thought of their friendship dripped on deRossi’s soul like acid on living skin.
In his hotel room, deRossi took out the city map of Calcutta once again although he had already memorised the relevant streets and quarters during his Lufthansa flight. Shanti Nagar was located on the other side of the Hugli, an estuary in the western Ganges delta, surrounded by slums. He had even studied aerial images of the colony and its surroundings. Of course he wouldn’t actually search for Sister Silvia in the leper colony. That would be too risky. Instead, he had memorised her habits, her highs and lows, her likes and dislikes and her fears.
Her habits were the best starting point for the Monsignor. She held on to one of the habits she had developed with Mother Teresa in particular: as reliable as a Swiss clock, she still paid regular visits to the poorhouses for the poorest of the poor located in the Slum Motijheel near Tangra and the Loreto school in order to help out with medicine and food. Motijheel now had its own school and a little church. It was there, amidst the deepest abyss of human vegetation, that deRossi would expect her.
41
Ben’s day had begun slowly. He slept well past noon, then enjoyed a late, simple breakfast with Rinaldo consisting of white bread, butter, Roman cheese and strong coffee. Then he read Catherine’s mysterious text message.
"Gabriel was here. Regards, Catherine."
It appeared she had had another one of her weird dreams so he had called her on her mobile phone. But she didn’t pick up so he left her a brief message on her mailbox instead. Then he tried to reach Abel. No luck there either. It seemed that perhaps Abel had gone to bed very late and was now sleeping in for the remainder of the day.
After showering and changing, Ben had asked Rinaldo to come to the living room where he came upon a small stack of daily newspapers that the priest had read and left there. As he briefly scanned the various politics and sports sections, he came upon a headline in the regional news that made his heart stop.
"Catholic Priest Dies in an Apartment House Fire!"
Ben read the report. With each passing line he became more and more nauseous. It was said that one of the apartment buildings near the Forum Romanum had partially burned down. The origin of the fire was allegedly a flat on the second floor. Four had been slightly injured, two severely and two had died, including one Catholic priest.
The newspaper fell from his hands. Lord above! Abel was dead! It was certainly no accident. Most likely the young priest had been murdered at the exact time that Ben had made his way to Benelli’s villa to find out more about LUKE.
Ben gagged, got himself up and made it just in time to the bathroom where he completely lost his breakfast. When he had finally pulled himself together and returned in a haze to the living room, he found Rinaldo standing there with the paper open to the article in his hands.
"Do you know something about this?" asked the young priest.
Ben nodded. "I am afraid I do. It would be best if you were to bring me to Cardinal Ciban straight away."
42
Leo’s ashen face looked like a mask of paralysed pain. Despite the immense energy surge from Catherine and Benelli, it took all his mental energy and discipline to let the agonising moment of death wash over him. Hours seemed to drag on although he knew it only took a few moments before the deep pain of dying was followed by death’s peace.
Another committee member had been murdered, but Leo had no idea who the latest victim was. He only felt the spear in his flesh and torture in his soul, but thanks to the energetic transfusion, he didn’t experience another collapse. Besides, he was in his private chambers looking for the journal he must have misplaced so no one was witness to his attacks and confusion.
There was a knock at the door. "Holiness?"
The Pope recognised the voice immediately. Sister Catherine. It appeared she had noticed his attack through the band that Benelli had created between the two of them. If that were the case, then she must also know about his mental dependency on the committee members and about his physical and mental withdrawal that Benelli’s and her energy had softened like a substitute drug.
Leo called out for the young woman to enter. He saw in her eyes that she was both worried and confused. Could it be that she not only felt his concern and weakness, but also the death process? He knew death in the material world was not the end, but his encounter with it shocked him every time. When Catherine saw that he was alright, her worry and confusion turned to relief.
"Another murder, Holiness?" She had closed the door and approached him.
Leo nodded. She seemed so poised despite everything. Although he exuded calm and experience on the outside, he himself felt an enormous level of chaos on the inside. "It seems as though our opponent wants to eradicate the entire committee."
Catherine eyed the Pope discreetly. The entire committee? She recalled Benelli saying in the chapel that Sister Isabella and Father Sylvester had belonged to a society that was closely related to the Pope. She also remembered the conversation Leo and Ciban had had when she had reported to the Pope about the dead cardinal’s instructions in the prefect’s presence. But it seemed at the moment that the Pope wasn’t going to go into any further detail about the committee.
Although a part of his soul was in upheaval, the Pope gave her the overall impression that he was stable. At the same time, she could feel the energy being sucked out of her in tiny, invisible waves. She wondered if she could see the energy maelstrom if she tapped into her gift, but she dared not to do it for fear she might irretrievably destroy its magic. Quite possibly the connection between Benelli, herself and the Pope could have brought about the fantastical day dream, a short, succinct vision that she had just had a few minutes before while sitting on the rooftop terrace with her lap top and working on her new book.
In her daydream she had been a part of a group of men, women and children who were approaching Old Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives from Bethany via the three kilometre-long Jericho Road. It had felt so real, so tangible – until Leo had his attacks that had abruptly pulled her out of her vision through the energy band.
"I will let Cardinal Ciban know," said the Pope. He went to his desk, grabbed the telephone and speed-dialled the number for the Palace of the Inquisition.
The conversation didn’t last two minutes before he hung up. "Now we wait, Sister. I have no idea who the latest murder victim is, but I fear we are about to find out."
43
Calcutta, Church in Motijheel
As Father Sam Raj walked into the tiny church in Motijheel through the vestry behind the high altar as he did every morning, the first thing he noticed was the warm candlelight. The evening before there hadn’t been nearly as many lit candles in the church as there were now. The entire front altar was bathed in a warm, tender light.
Father Raj walked around the area and saw an angelic figure lying on the stone floor surrounded by a sea of candles. The figure was cloaked in a blue and white sari from the community, the order’s habit of charitable missionaries. H
e gasped in surprise and made a sign of the cross.
"Sister?"
The priest ran to the nun who lay prostate with her arms outstretched, but the candles prevented him from getting any closer without burning himself. He felt his way through the first row of candles and thought he might have heard something moving in the dim light of the church. Did he hear a groaning coming from somewhere in the darkness?
"Sister!"
The nun lay on the ground and looked up at the ceiling of the tiny church as if she had just had a divine vision. Father Raj was afraid of the strange sounds and the shadows that the candles cast onto the stone floor, but he continued to sweep away several rows of them. As he did so, he noticed that the missionary appeared to be no longer breathing. The visionary look on her face seemed to be frozen.
In the midst of his movement, he himself froze. He recognised the face of the woman lying there. It was Sister Silvia!
The altar’s crucifix danced in its own shadow and light high above her.
When he had removed the final row of candles that stood between himself and the nun, he leaned over her to see if she was breathing. Nothing. He grabbed her arm and felt her pulse. Again nothing.
The horror was etched in Father Raj’s face. He made a sign of the cross, took Sister Silvia’s cool hand in his and began to pray while crying.
44
Calcutta Airport
Monsignor deRossi placed his hand luggage in the compartment above him and sat down at his window seat. Unfortunately the external glass was so smeared that he could only vaguely recognise the world beyond the plane. A spooky, pale light glistened on the tarmac. It was only dawn. But it still made him nervous.
He turned on all three reading lamps above him. The plane was two-thirds empty so no one was sitting next to him to complain. Beneath the lamps’ beams he took a deep breath and tried to relax.
