by Martha Carr
The White Rose Order
An Origin Short Story in the Wallis Jones series
Martha Carr
MRC Publishing
Contents
The White Rose Order
The Origin Story of the Order
Martha’s Notes
The White Rose Order
An Origin Short Story
in the Wallis Jones Series
Martha Carr
MRC
Central Texas
Copyright ©2017 by Martha Carr
Published by Martha Carr
Texas
All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.
The White Rose Order by Martha Carr is a short story and a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, locations and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Dave Robbins
Created with Vellum
To all the heroes in our lives, including ourselves who are heroes every time we get up and go out there again, into the world, ready to do better, love more, and be there for each other.
Dedicated to Don Allison, whose guidance in life and literature made this series possible.
To Michael Bingham-Hawk for a great website and so much more.
To Michael Anderle for his generosity to all of his fellow authors.
And to my son, Louie and the wonderful Katie who remind me all the time of what really matters and how wonderful life can be in any given moment.
April 1975
The two men dressed in dark, plain black cassocks stood at the edge of the gravesite looking at the tombstone that lay flat on the ground that read, ‘Here was buried Thomas Jefferson. Author of the Declaration of American Independence and the Statue of Virginia for Religious freedom & Father of the University of Virginia’.
The rough white stone that covered the grave was taken from a nearby quarry and was covered in nickels that tourists regularly tossed through the nearby stout iron fence.
“We were directed to bury the most important relic with him,” said the older Episcopal priest, Father Andrews. “It was one of our own that conducted his funeral. In our third president’s hand is a small brass globe that is really a puzzle box. Inside of it is a scroll that outlines our existence. There’s even an old story that the puzzle holds mystical powers and that as long as it stays here, on what is considered hallowed grounds,” he said, widening his arms to include the house and the grounds, “a certain balance is kept in the world.”
The old priest sneezed suddenly, his bulbous nose immediately turning a deep red. The sharp honk startled the younger man who was lost in his thoughts, and snapped him back from dark, painful memories but leaving the constant feeling of loss that lingered in his chest.
Father Andrews sneezed again, reaching out to grab Father Michaels around the arm, shaking them both with another sneeze. “There, that should do it,” he said, pulling a damp handkerchief out of his back pocket and roughly wiping his nose.
He was stooped at the shoulders just enough that he constantly looked as if he was about to bend down and pick up one of the nickels from the gravesite.
The series of sneezes only made him look like he was some kind of plain, short, round bird bobbing his head toward the ground.
Father Michaels turned his face, shutting his eyes as the wind came up from the valley, picking up and making the few wisps of hair still left on the older priest’s head dance and swirl.
“That was part of his very long and specific instructions,” said Father Andrews, staring down at the grave, “but as you might imagine we never share that part with the public. However, we do consider this little tour of the gravesite part of the initiation into the order of the White Rose. I will be your mentor for the first year. It’s necessary to know where you come from, the foundation, if you’re going to commit your life to this kind of special service.”
The younger Episcopal priest, Father Michaels was wearing brand-new vestments, the creases still running down the front from where it had recently been folded in a box. He was standing up as tall and erect as he could, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, trying to give himself a look of respect he didn’t quite feel yet.
He was already a little distracted by the feel of the light breeze that was now playing across his neck. There was a pale rectangle of skin at the back of his nape where his hair recently hung down, well over his collar.
“I know what I’m getting into,” said the young priest, an edge to his voice. “We’re the peacekeepers no one should ever see or even hear about. A kind of spiritual spy force.”
“That’s one way of describing it,” said Father Andrews. “A better description would be that there are two shadow governments that really rule the world.” He held out his hands palms up “One,” he said, moving his left hand up and down as if he was holding something heavy, “has come to be known as Management. They offer a certain elevated way of life to all of their members, worldwide. But they have this little nasty clause that they never quite tell anyone until it’s too late,” said the Father, his lips pursing as if he was tasting something sour and spoiled.
“Once you’re in, you’re in for life,” said Father Michaels.
“That’s a nice way to put it. You know, they started with the best of intentions to create a middle-class but somewhere along the line in the last three hundred years, things went awry as they often do. Someone wrote a new set of rules so long ago no one remembers, and suddenly Management had a murderous corporate structure unrivaled by anything else in the world. Then, there is the Circle,” he said, suddenly moving his right hand up and down. “That’s where we came in. The Order helped create the Circle. I’m not sure even we understood what we were doing at first, but it was at the direction of the founding fathers,” he said, letting out a low growl. “Too many good people found themselves being hunted for the treasonous act of trying to leave Management. I think Jefferson and his lot understood that when something can’t be defeated it’s still worthwhile to at least get in their way.”
“How do you know it’s still, well, down there with him?” asked the young priest, hesitantly. “I mean, something that important. How do you know the relic is still buried with Mr. Jefferson?”
Father Andrews looked grim, not taking his eyes off of the headstone and said, “Ever since Thomas Jefferson founded the Order as a means to keep the balance between the Circle and Management, someone from the White Rose has always been on these grounds. It was why such a common stone was directed to be placed above his grave. It was Mr. Jefferson’s way of cutting down on vandalism or thieves. To the average felon, all of the prizes would appear to be in the house.”
The young priest grew restless, rocking in place in the uncomfortable new Florsheims, and turned to look out over the valley, trying to distract himself. The haunting memories came back to him again. They were never very far away.
In the distance were the Blue Ridge Mountains. Its’ gray blue cast normally was calming, but not today. Father Andrews lifted his chin slightly to get a better look at the taller young man. He was quietly commanding even from his hunched, lower position.
“Your anger will only get in the way,” he said, evenly. “If you don�
��t think this is something that you can let go of, let me know. It’s not too late to back out.”
“I made my peace with this,” said Father Michaels, trying to sound unconcerned and failing.
“Yes, but have you made your peace with your past? We are not here for your vengeance.”
Father Michaels winced and felt the heat of a flash of anger run through him, settling in his chest. He saw the faces of his mother and father, his sister and brother, all smiling and gathered round him at his high school graduation, just a handful of years ago. The memory was always quickly followed by the image of concrete and steel rubble, crushing everyone and everything beneath it. He squeezed his eyes shut.
There was the gentle pat-pat of a hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s finish the tour,” said Father Andrews, as Father Michaels opened his eyes, blinking away the few tears that always accompanied the memories. “Have you ever been to Monticello before today? It’s a marvel of architecture in so many ways. And then there’s the hidden secrets that very few ever get to see,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
The estate was built at the summit of an eight hundred and fifty-foot-high peak at the edge of the large green five-thousand acre estate, looking out over the valley below by a young Thomas Jefferson, and from the edge of the large green lawn Father Michaels could see the cupola of University of Virginia down below. It was the college he had intended to go to before the accident.
He balled his hand into a fist at his side at the thought of the word. Accident.
They walked up the long curving drive that passed by the well-manicured 1,000 foot-long garden terrace where Jefferson was known to take a personal hand. A wide brick pathway curved around to the front of the house that looked like a miniature version of the University below.
As they entered the main double doors at the front of the house, Father Michaels saw to the left a large brass ball that moved up and down the wall over a twelve-hour period, as a clever means of telling the time. Father Andrew moved toward the glass doors at the far side of the room, gently pushing open the right side. The door on the left opened with the same ease without anyone touching it, as if by magic.
“It’s really quite clever,” said Father Andrews. Behind the doors was a large drawing room where five other young men stood in the same stiff black cassocks looking nervous and self-important. They huddled together by the tall windows on the other side of the room that ran from the floor to the ceiling. Two of the windows were open slightly, the sash pulled down from the top. But the third window had been open from the side and was being used more as a door than a window.
Father Michaels rubbed his face with his hands, wondering if there was a place he could get a little more coffee. They had been rushed through the brunch earlier in the day. Ever since that day in 1970, when someone had come looking for him to tell him he was now alone on the earth, Father Michaels had not had a restful night’s sleep.
It had been only days after his high school graduation.
He still carried the picture from that day, the corners bent, carefully tucked in his wallet where he could pull it out and try to remember their voices. His mother’s light laugh. His father’s gentle encouragement.
Five years later it was getting harder. The voices all sounded hollow now, like an echo, adding to his disappointment and anger.
Sometimes, he’d hear them for just a moment in his dreams and he’d lean forward in his sleep, trying to get closer. Then the funeral would start and the dreams would quickly glide into nightmares. He was used to feeling like he was always running on fumes.
It did help dull the ache that lived with him and often drowned out any other feeling of loneliness that always threatened to drown him.
It was a chance meeting with a woman who ran a small bookstore in Richmond, Virginia, Esther Ackerman, that changed the course of his life. Up to the moment he had met her, he had been drifting from one job to another, none of them enough to even pay the rent on anything better than a single room in a rundown old mansion. Most of the other rooms were filled with drunks who rarely ventured out except for another bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 from a nearby drugstore or day laborers who needed a bed in between trying to pick up shifts.
The bookstore had become his refuge and he spent hours there, wandering through the stacks of books that weaved and turned, creating their own hallways through the small shop that at one time had been someone’s house.
Finally, one day, Esther had started a conversation with him, until one day she told him he needed direction. “I know of an organization that could use a young man like you,” she had said. That was her biggest mistake.
Father Michaels put his hand against his chest and could feel the folded-up paper still under his cassock. It was the plans to the building where his entire family had been visiting on the day it collapsed to the ground in what seem like just a moment.
“One-two-three-four-five,” he whispered, till he quietly counted to thirty. He did it all the time, feeling how much time it took between the building starting to crumble and the entire structure crushing their bones.
He wanted to know how long they each had to wonder and worry. It was a weird kind of comfort.
At the time, official investigators had said that it was caused by an explosion from a gas leak that had allowed pressure to build up within the walls until a random spark blew it all apart, destroying the building.
But during his initial training with the Circle, Father Michaels had come across a set of stairs that seemed to lead to nowhere. Curiosity got the better of him. Inside of the old brick nondescript building was a set of cement stairs, hidden behind a gray steel door that led down two stories into a vast underground chamber where Father Michaels found row, upon row, upon row of steel shelving that went from the floor to the ceiling 30 feet above his head. They were archives that were neatly kept about every significant event since the founding of the Order. Everything was still in its original form.
It was something peculiar to the Order. Nothing on computers, nothing handed off without looking someone in the eye, first.
It didn’t take him long to figure out the filing system and out of curiosity more than anything, he looked for the year he graduated from high school, 1970.
There he found the blueprints for the building with a detailed report of what happened that day. It felt as if time stood still while he read the report, taking in the words.
Embezzlement. Fraud. Cover up.
The building was erected by a company owned by a Management director named, George Clemente. It was common knowledge in Management that he had been cutting corners for years, using cheaper cement and a lower grade of steel in a series of projects. The money that should have been spent on the building he kept for himself.
Eventually, the poor standards caught up with everyone and one day a building that looked to the naked eye like it should stand for a hundred years suddenly, and without warning flattened like a pancake crushing everyone between the floors, killing them instantly. Everyone, including Father Michaels’ family who had been there on some routine errand. Father Michael would have been there if he hadn’t insisted on going to the beach with his friends.
Now, the only thing that kept him motivated in life was the thought of finally catching up with the man he held responsible for the death of his family. George Clemente was his reason for joining the Order of the White Rose, his reason for still living. But he was smart enough to hide that during the initial interviews, and to quickly figure out what someone wanted to hear, and give it back to them.
One day, his chance would come and he would take it. Sooner rather than later.
“You know we’ve been doing this for hundreds of years,” whispered Father Andrews in a low voice, startling Father Michaels. “You’re not the first to join us with the hopes of settling a score. Normally, we turn those away as quickly as possible. But Esther, she’s a nudge. She insisted there was something here that we could work with, and it became
obvious that we were going to have to try, or she would fly around me like a gnat, forever.”
“How did you know?” asked the young man, before he could stop himself.
“Son, if we couldn’t see inside the head of an angry young man, imagine the difficulties we have coming up against the large, well-organized machine who actually believes that the way they rule the world is doing everyone a favor. Besides, the man you’re hunting, George Clemente is a thorn in everyone’s side. I’m not advocating his death, not at this point anyway. But you may have a just reason for wanting more than you got.”
A young nervous woman scurried up to the priest and gently tapped on his shoulder as if she was afraid to disturb him. Father Andrews turned and bent over more than his usual stoop, to try and listen as she whispered into his ear. Father Michaels caught only parts of the conversation but he heard enough. Something about Clemente.
Father Andrews waved to another priest across the room who quickly joined him and whispered furiously, “Complete the initiation with the young men and give them their first assignments. I have other business that can’t wait.
Father Michaels grabbed his new mentor by the arm, squeezing hard. “I’m going with you,” he said. “Don’t even try arguing. You won’t get out of here without me.”
He met Father Andrews’ gaze without blinking. “We’re wasting time. I know who you’re trying to get, and I’m going with you,” he said with resolve.
The old Episcopal priest looked saddened, as if he was about to help someone take part in running their life. “Revenge is one of those things that takes away your humanity in such small pieces that by the time you notice, it’s too late.”
