by Rick Jones
Grabbing his crutches and topping the three steps, Kimball made his way out of the catacombs that lay beneath the basilica.
The message had been duly received and stored. Kimball Hayden, with all he could muster, would rise like the Phoenix and take flight with his newfound wings that would spread broad and wide over those who treated Darkness as their paramour.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Papal Chamber
Inside the Apostolic Palace
Vatican City
The pontiff was sitting behind his desk when there was a knock on the door, a light rapping. A bishop in a black robe with red piping opened the door, and with a gesture of his hand invited Kimball to take a seat before the papal desk. After Kimball entered the chamber, the bishop closed the door softly behind him, a small click coming from the locking bolt.
The pontiff was carrying a smile so impossibly wide that it appeared humorously exaggerated, as he rounded the desk and embraced Kimball. The pope held the Vatican Knight so closely he could feel the body warmth of a man who should have died, rise from his clothing. “It’s by God’s grace you’re here,” the pontiff stated pleasantly. After Pope Pius XIV aided Kimball into a wingback chair, the pontiff gingerly set the crutches on the floor by Kimball’s feet.
Taking his own chair behind the papal desk, the pontiff asked, “How do you feel, Kimball? Really.”
“A little pain in the legs, not much. But the doctors assure me that’s because the muscles are working themselves back into condition after a long period of dormancy.”
The pontiff nodded. “Almost four months, Kimball. And the prognosis was not good. In fact, there was a high possibility that you would return in a vegetative state, since you passed on your way to the hospital. You were lost for several minutes, Kimball, before you were resuscitated. So much time, in fact, it was presumed that the lack of oxygen could have severely deprived your brain, perhaps causing irreversible damage.” The pontiff’s smile maintained itself, though it appeared a little less clownish. “And here you are, a miracle of God who has pulled you through with His blessing.”
Kimball, however, wasn’t sure about that. In his mind it was more of a rejection.
The pontiff leaned forward in his lavish chair to appraise Kimball with a narrowed eye. Then: “Tell me, in those moments you were gone, in the time that you left us . . . What did you see?”
Kimball hesitated for a long moment; the pause almost eternal before the Vatican Knight finally spoke. “I was inside this tunnel. And at the end of this tunnel was a light in the shape of a square, very small. And then it grew as if coming closer, growing brighter, though it was not too glaring or too bright. It was all-consuming, warm and . . . inviting.”
“Then you have seen the gateway to Heaven.”
Kimball shook his head at this in the negative. “I was informed by the physician that this is a common state when people die. Apparently, as the body shuts down so does the brain. What I was seeing were the synapsis discharging by the millions as the brain starved for oxygen, the cells dying. This Great Illumination you continue to insist upon was nothing more than the body naturally powering down its electrical components.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“If I may be candid.”
“Of course.”
“I heard a voice, a woman. Is the voice of God female?”
“Why not the voice of the Virgin Mother? There is a stained-glass window in your chambers of her reaching out to you in invitation, something you’ve seen almost every day since you’ve been here. Perhaps it was her voice you heard, the invitation still standing.”
Kimball remained standing at these crossroads between blind faith and scientific reasoning. He wanted to believe in the pontiff’s words, that they had merit. But something inside Kimball stonewalled his confidence that he’d been accepted at all. He believed he was given a glimpse of what could have been, if not for his past sins. When he finally came to and was overwhelmed by the sudden and sharp pain in his legs, he knew he’d been rejected. After proffering a false smile, Kimball wanted to believe that his dismissal by the Light was a minor setback, rather than to have somebody explain away a man’s faith through scientific reasoning. But blind faith had never been Kimball’s forte. What he could see, feel, taste, smell or hear—these were the realities of his world.
Intuiting Kimball’s thoughts with uncanny ability that was almost too scary, the pontiff said, “But you did see the Light.”
“I saw a light . . . Maybe not thee Light.”
“All in due time, Kimball, now that you’ve walked down that road.” The pope leaned back into his seat with his face lit up and beaming with the delight of Kimball Hayden sitting before him as a man alive; a living, breathing miracle he believed was on the rebound to rightly take his place as the master of the Vatican Knights. It would take time, maybe months or even years, but time was all Kimball had.
Then from the pontiff: “I’m sure you know that trouble has been brewing once again in the Middle East with Iran rattling the cage of the United States, and the skirmishes between them that appears to be fostering a darkness.”
“I do.”
“A greater concern, however, remains with the rise of the Islamic State in parts of Syria. Nevertheless, the Vatican still has interests in these regions.” The pope appeared to be sizing Kimball up, starting with the Vatican Knight’s legs. “How bad?” he asked, pointing to Kimball’s lower regions. “Your hips?”
“Hips are fine,” he answered. “My legs were badly broken. It was necessary to go in and piece them back together with rods and pins. With rehabilitation they’ll be back to a hundred percent, or so I’m told.”
“How long to get back in regimental shape?”
“Months. A year at the most.”
Pope Pius XIV then looked at the horrendously burned hand that was no doubt a telltale sign for the rest of Kimball's arm. “And your arm?” he asked.
“The skin is burned, but the muscles, nerves and tendons are fine. Don’t let appearances fool you . . . The arm that was branded by the fire is as much of a force as the other.”
The pontiff nodded at this. “That’s good, Kimball. You do understand that the church is willing to do what it must in order to see you commanding your rightful post as a Vatican Knight.”
“I do.”
“So be it. Exercise equipment and recommended therapy, physical and mental, will be at your disposal at all times.”
“Recommended therapy, as with holding counsel with the good monsignor on multiple occasions?”
The pontiff smiled. “The body not only needs to heal physically, Kimball, it needs to heal mentally and spiritually, as well. One component must harmonize with others to create a balanced whole, don’t you agree?”
“I like the monsignor . . . but seriously.”
“Harmony, Kimball. It’s all about harmony.”
Grabbing his crutches and laboring to his feet under the concerned eye of Pope Pius XIV, Kimball did something he hadn’t done in a long time. As a measure of respect to the papal station, he grabbed the pope’s hand and kissed the Fisherman’s ring. Then he placed a closed fist over his heart and said: “Loyalty above all else except honor.” This was the salute of the Vatican Knights.
Getting to his feet, Pope Pius XIV said, “And may God be with you.”
Turning with the use of his forearm crutches, Kimball exited the pontiff’s chambers knowing that he had a long journey ahead of him.
* * *
The quarters of the Vatican Knights were located on the grounds of the Vatican next to the Old Gardens, inside of a nondescript building that was made of field stones. The hallways always echoed with the poor acoustics of someone’s footfalls. In the case of Kimball Hayden, his crutches gave off more of a metallic sound instead of the clicking of heels.
When he reached the door to his chamber—which looked as if it had been constructed during Medieval Times with black metal bands and rivets—he opened i
t and stepped inside.
The room was just as he had left it—small, spartan and cramped. On the left was his living area with his cot, trunk, nightstand, a sink and mirror for shaving and washing, and magazines on military warfare. On the right side of the room was an area that had been set aside for spiritual worship. There was a votive rack filled with candles that had never been burned; a kneeling rail that had never been knelt upon; and a Bible, which had never been opened, sitting upon a bone-white podium.
Kimball measured the room with relish in his eyes and delight within his heart.
I’m home.
High on the wall was a stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary who held her arms out in invitation. On certain days as the sun made its trajectory, the rays that filtered through the colored panes provided a Biblical beam of light into the chamber. The image of the Virgin Mother was always smiling and welcoming, as if she was ready to accept Kimball within her arms to pull him close. It was here that Kimball recalled when he would allow his fingers to dance within inches of the beam, only to pull them away because he did not believe himself worthy of the Light.
I remember.
Then he looked at the stained-glass figure of the Virgin Mother and noted her smile and the pleasantness of her face, forever etched in glass. There was no reflecting beam from the sun on this day, which was overcast. Nor was there an offering of good hope. Perhaps his rejection, he considered, was one of permanent standing.
He then recalled the moment of his passing when he saw the light, a small square of light at the end of a tunnel, growing brighter as it approached with unbridled warmth.
Then there was the voice of the woman calling out to him, the voice of an angel. Though his memories at this point were rather sketchy, he believed that the voice was calling for him to ‘come back.’ Whether it was to ‘come back’ to the light or to ‘come back’ to the dark, he didn’t know. All he knew for sure was that the voice was sweet and pure and something undeniably feminine, the voice of a guardian angel.
Looking up at the glass-stained image high upon the wall, he asked, “Was it your voice that I heard on that day?”
Silence.
“Was it you who called me to the Light . . . only to reject me in the end?”
As the last of his words echoed off inside his chamber, Kimball Hayden went to his cot, set his crutches aside, and simply allowed his knees to buckle out from under him so that he landed on the edge of his bed.
“I’m home,” he whispered. Then he looked at the stained-glass image once again. “I have a long way to go, don’t I?”
When he received no answer as expected, Kimball Hayden started to map out his future in his mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Central Syria
Doctors Without Borders is a non-profitable humanitarian organization that provides medical aid to people affected by wars and manmade disasters in areas where there is no health care available. In Syria, as civil war raged, the Kurds were pushed to the south by Turkish forces who were backed by Russia. And since U.S. forces were evacuated to deal with Iran to take on the resurging Islamic State, the Kurds eventually found themselves inside the hot zone with hostile Turks to their north and the Islamic State coming at them from every point of the compass.
On this day as the Islamic State began its incursion from the south and the east, the Kurds—which included the collateral damage of women and children and the elderly—were filling the wards faster than surgeons could operate. Some of the wounded were dead on arrival, whereas others had died waiting. Nothing permeated the area more horribly than the stench of blood and feces that was overpowering. The severely damaged lay on blood-stained gurneys either in disconnected states or on the brink of consciousness, with most speaking nonsensically because they couldn’t piece together a cogent thought.
Doctors Chancellor Gregor and Chad Mayne were overwhelmed and understaffed as the victims of a recent assault against a Kurdish village from an ISIS unit that was taking new ground to conscript teenage boys to replenish their ranks, fell victim. Their scrubs appeared more like smocks worn by butchers that had been dyed with the rainbow hues between bright red and deep brown, all which was contingent upon the blood being fresh or old.
Nurses who aided whenever possible, though, like Doctors Gregor and Mayne, had found themselves overcome.
Even Father Ettore Savino, who was from the Vatican as an emissary of good will, prayed and mourned over those who had passed while delivering the Anointing of the Sick. Whether those who died practiced Muslim or Christian values, Father Savino believed that God had many faces but only one voice. Therefore, the message to all, no matter the faith, was always the same, and that the tenets were not the doctrines of a single faith, but the laws of all religions.
Father Savino, exhausted, went from table to table, from gurney to gurney, with Bible in hand, and spoke to the wounded and dying, and to the men, women and children who screamed as they called upon Allah, whereas the Christian-minded called unto God, as they wailed and cried and sobbed to a point where Father Savino thought he was alone inside a house of madness.
As the day progressed and the wounded cared for, both physicians found a much-deserved respite from digging wrist-deep into bodies and taking a seat along a bench against the wall, the two far beyond battle worn even though they hadn’t stepped onto the field of engagement.
Father Savino, on the other hand, was far from completing his work as minister. As the meds did little to dull the patients’ agony, the chorus of cries sounded like a dark recital that never ended as screams united at different pitches and levels.
After removing his disposable face mask, Doctor Gregor tossed it into a nearby bin and leaned the back of his head against the wall. “I don’t think I can continue to keep up this pace,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll get sloppy with our work if I do.”
Doctor Mayne, who was too tired to remove his surgical mask, spoke, though his words were muffled beneath his mask. “If ISIS continues their surge,” he said, “none of this will matter. We’ve made our choice and I’m good with that . . . We have to ride this out to the end.”
Doctor Gregor surveyed the room that had too many bodies and too little space. When he and Doctor Mayne took their staff to Syria as part of DWB mission, never did they consider inhumanity to be their greatest enemy. Healthy people were made crippled by battle. And wholesome families had been torn apart by a terrorist regime whose members had hearts that were made of ice and stone. It was an insanity that neither doctor could wrap their heads around—that it was a paradoxical policy to kill for a god, when there was no god who would ever condone the killing of another man.
Two days ago, as ISIS was approaching the village from the southeast, the doctors were given the opportunity of being removed by an American unit before leaving to a point close to the Iranian border. But they declined, believing that their services were invaluable to the Kurdish people, which it was. As the American military team spoke in earnest about the cons of staying behind, and with the stubbornness of the doctors to relent, the American commander left with a parting statement that neither doctor would ever forget: “Since you decided to create your bed of nails,” he told them, “now you must sleep in it.” It was the last thing they heard before watching the helicopter lift and bank towards Iran. But neither man regretted his decision to stay behind nor did the members of their staff, at least not yet. They had made an allegiance to their organization to perform and provide healthcare in zones of strife, despite the dangers and challenges involved. Now with ISIS knocking on their door, their viewpoints had shifted. The Islamic league of extremists were rebuilding their forces after the American pullout, once again rearing its ugly head to take and conquer by virtue of terror.
Since you decided to create your bed of nails, now you must sleep in it.
With true goodness in their hearts, they had been blinded against the inevitable. The Light that was once beginning to reveal itself over the landscape was once mo
re being eclipsed by a pervading Darkness.
The medical teams, which included Father Savino, had hemmed themselves in. From all sides the enemy would come to conquer and take lives as if they were meaningless, then justify these atrocities in the name of their god since justifying any action, no matter how heinous, was the easiest thing any man could do.
While the physicians sat quietly wearing their bloodied scrubs while watching over others, as Father Savino went from person to person believing himself to be God’s divine vessel to provide spiritual peace, as staff members leaned against tables as if they were too tired to stand on their own, everyone knew the cancer had surrounded them from all sides.
A Darkness was approaching from which there was no escape.
Since you decided to create your bed of nails . . . now you must sleep in it.
In the background, the symphony of people’s miseries continued its black concert of wailing cries.
* * *
Father Savino had discovered his calling long ago as a man who needed to provide comfort to those who needed it the most such as the ill and the feeble-minded, the poor and the destitute, the infirm and the dying, people whose lives were weighted by misery. He could never see himself sermonizing from a pulpit when there were so many who needed his hand to guide them against the tides of troubled waters. In time, as Father Savino’s selfless acts went noticed by the province bishop, his name was submitted to the archbishop of the province who, in turn, submitted Father Savino’s name to the curricula vitae of priests. Once a vote was cast for Father Savino’s endorsement and tallied, the ratification of him becoming a bishop was forwarded to the apostolic nuncio in Washington, D.C. and to the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops. Once his name was approved by the council, it was forwarded to Rome where the apostolic nuncio played a decisive role in the selection process. But in the end and as esteemed as Father Savino was in the eyes of his province, he was not so in the eyes of the apostolic nuncio. The mission of all priests was to be the messengers of God by spreading His word from the pulpit, something Father Savino had rejected by choosing to work in the Fields of Discontent. Though the word ‘noble’ was used to summarize Father Savino by the apostolic nuncio, the priest was ultimately rejected and remained a cleric who would bring hope to those who had nothing to hope for, until they grabbed Savino’s hand only to discover an indescribable magic to his touch. And then to see the eyes of the deprived detonate with sudden enlightenment thereafter was reward enough for Father Savino.
