The same night Clay Montague used the word Hellspawn, Father Gallo had placed a long distance call to Rome to one of the few friends he had left in the Vatican. A Jesuit scholar and a man on the fast-track to becoming a cardinal with an order in council to exempt him from the usual Episcopalian consecration, Father Mustavias Malachi was a church veteran and a man on the move. The reason Gallo called him was that, in conversation, his friend Mustavias Malachi had once mentioned the legend of the Hellspawn, a legend, he had also said, was best left alone.
After initial pleasantries on the trans-Atlantic call, Father Gallo had congratulated his friend on his coming appointment to Cardinal. Father Malachi, a distinct Boston twang in his accent, had brushed it aside with some, but not too much modesty.
Finally Gallo brought up the matter of the soldier and his ravings about the Hellspawn. The Jesuit paused. “Wasn’t that an old wives’ tale? Some sort of John the Baptist of hell preceding the Antichrist looking to doom hope and turn the righteous from the Father?”
Gallo agreed and enlightened him a bit more saying: “I have a comatose soldier in a VA hospital here who should be incapable of any speech and he’s ranting in Ancient Latin, Mustavias. Not high school Latin, but a dialect that is surely from Ancient Rome. And, from what I can make out – you know I majored in Latin studies – he’s warning us that the Hellspawn has awakened again.” Gallo thought he might have imagined it but he noted a guarded tone in Malachi’s voice as he spoke.
“Where did he hear of it, Benito?”
“I don’t know. We ourselves spoke of it in Rome, as seminary students.”
“But we were young and foolish, willing to believe anything that confirmed our choice to become men of the cloth, were we not? Surely we’ve grown beyond ghost stories, my friend?”
“Hardly a ghost story if he saw something,” Gallo muttered, disappointed.
“No offense...” Malachi hastened to add, taking the sting out of his words. There’d been silence at the other end of the phone and so he asked: “What would you like me to do, Benito?”
“There is something going on here,” Gallo said. Surprisingly he found his own voice tight and angry.
“Alright. What do you think is going on, Father?” Malachi asked, getting serious again.
“I don’t know but it’s something...something –”
“Supernatural?”
“Yes...and don’t laugh at me.”
“Never, my friend. I have too much respect for your intellect to ever take you lightly. In fact, I’d say that was eminently true about most of your brethren here in Rome.” They both chuckled at the joke. It was Father Malachi who had often warned Benito when he was treading on thin ice and disciplinary measures were afoot.
Finally, Malachi said: “I confess I’ve heard of the Hellspawn from time-to-time Benito, so, for you I shall make some inquiries. Covertly, of course so they don’t lock me up.” Father Malachi said he’d pray for the soldier and asked Benito to keep him informed of any further developments.
But further developments did not come. Clay Montague had remained lost in his “coma” for months, a mute prisoner in his brain that, from periodic EEG readings was rapidly deteriorating in function; his vital signs began to fluctuate and signal that his time was growing nigh. The doctors, while mystified by the cause, had resigned themselves to the likely outcome.
After an extended conference call with the patient’s sister in New Hampshire and a leading neurologist, the woman had finally agreed to a Do Not Resuscitate order. The last tests mirrored brain activity rivaling what might be expected in a turnip and a fever that resolutely crept up a tenth of a degree at a time.
The priest stood over the soldier and unzipped his small purse. He uncapped the oil blessed by his bishop, lit a candle, kissed the stole and placed it about his shoulders to administer the sacrament of Extreme Unction – the Last Rites. He used the oil to anoint the soldier in six places as he quietly spoke: “Through this Holy Unction and His most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee of whatever sins or faults thou hast committed...by sight...by hearing...by taste...by smell...by touch...by carnal delectation–.”
Suddenly the man moved. His right leg jumped followed by a harsh protest, as he wantonly thrashed about. This time he spoke in English: “Malachi...the Beast!” Abruptly he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Gallo stared at the ashen soldier, goose bumps rising on his neck and the back of his arms. Had the soldier said Malachi? How could he know that name?
For some reason the priest found himself making the sign of the cross. Then he recoiled slightly in surprise.
The soldier gazed silently up at him from the bed.
He was awake.
~ 10 ~
As Clay returned to the land of the living in upstate York State, less than three hundred miles away in Beebe, Quebec, directly on the Vermont border not far from where Clay grew up, 16-year-old Maria Michelle Lapierre gave her chestnut-colored hair one final brush and examined its shine in her bedroom mirror. She sighed. The time was coming when she had to start making choices. In her final year as a senior attending Sacred Heart High in Newport, Vermont, just across the border from her Canadian home, she was approaching a cross-road in her young life. Would she move on to university, accept a retail dead-end job in Rock Island or Derby Line, or choose another, less traditional path in life – one that had been occupying her thoughts for some time?
She knew she was privileged to live in Beebe Plain, a quintessential, crime-free small Quebec town where the main street was canopied by stately elms and maples setting off the pristine white wooden houses buffered by perfectly manicured green lawns. The weekly trips to Monsieur Boisvert, the butcher, and to Monsieur LeClair, the green grocer, and to the picture-perfect white, wooden Catholic Church, had delivered a predictability and security that was good for any maturing, young adolescent. And, Maria had some prestige in that her father, Bert Lapierre, was the Canadian Immigration Officer in Charge in nearby Stanstead.
Because there was no readily available secondary school in Beebe, each day she and other friends boarded the bus for the cross-border trip to Sacred Heart High in Newport, Vermont. Friday nights were spent at the Beebe Curling Club watching her parents in their favorite pass time, or in summer, going for a ride to pick up custard cones and play five-pin bowling.
Still, her favorite day was Saturday when she hitch-hiked with best friends Sandra Couture, Joanie Steward and Abby Langford to Stanstead and the Haskell Free Library and Opera House where she selected three books for the week. She had always been a voracious reader graduating from Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys and the Mercer Brothers, to Douglas Coupland, Joyce Carol Oates and Kurt Vonnegut. These she would devour during the week, and then dutifully return them for new ones the following Saturday.
The library, half in Rock Island, Quebec, and half in Derby Line, Vermont, was also unique in that it was a shared library between Canada and the U.S. with the international boundary marked by a single painted, red line on the hardwood floor.
Saturday night was Roxy Theatre night in Rock Island where she had previously attended Our Lady of Mercy grade school run by the nuns. She continued to drop in and see Sister Alice of the Immaculate Order, her former teacher and favorite nun.
This year had been an exciting time for Maria as she had come to believe that her reputation for being “weird” mattered less every day. More and more boys were throwing longing glances her way at school.
Anyhow, it wasn’t her fault that the French tabloid press in the form of Montreal’s Allo Police newspaper had jumped on her reported precognitive ability six years ago.
Maria had been innocently playing near a frozen-over stream with her friend Monique when the girl broke through the ice and disappeared. Maria ran to the girl’s nearby house for help. Her mother frantically ran back in her slippers only to find her daughter playing safely on the ice. As she turned to scold Maria, there was a sharp crack and Monique splashed into the water
, was seized by the current and carried away under the ice. Firemen found her lifeless body 30 minutes later. All resuscitation attempts failed.
After the accident was reported in its entirety, Maria had been sought out by the press and interviewed at school without her parents’ knowledge; it was then widely reported that the child from Beebe had a strange ability to sense future danger or tragedy.
As a young girl wanting to please an adult, she remembered how innocent and forthcoming she had been telling the reporter, exactly what she had seen in advance of her girlfriend’s death as well as her own role in the tragedy. And, she made the mistake of admitting to having visions since she could first remember. The reporter busily scribbled in his notebook. Unfortunately, the visions were always of bad things. When the article was picked up by international news agencies, Maria’s “coming out” was not welcomed by her parents. And, for good reason.
More and more, she was viewed as an oddity in the small town. Upset, her mother made her promise never to reveal any extraordinary knowledge she might possess, no matter what the incentive or circumstance.
If only it was so easy to turn off, Maria thought. And why, she wondered for the umpteenth time, were the visions or feelings mostly centered on something evil or tragic? Why couldn’t she predict good things?
Later in years Maria finally decided that the best and most effective way to deal with her gift or curse – depending on your view – was to refuse to acknowledge these precognitive visions. She firmly place them in her psyche as the silly and idle wanderings of a teen-age mind. And, as for her occasional glimpses into what people were thinking, albeit, infrequently, she labeled them as lucky guesses.
And, it worked.
For instance, she had managed to push aside the ridiculous image of a fellow student (in the process of showing off his new yellow mustang) when a picture of him lying crumpled and lifeless beside twisted yellow metal obscenely compacted against a telephone pole flashed into view. She had managed to suppress, as just plain silly, the notion of her Uncle Fred putting a black revolver to his temple and seeing blood and brains vomit out the opposite side of his head to smack onto the green tiled wall of the bathroom like so much spaghetti sauce as he slipped backwards into the tub. And, she resolved as totally nonsensical the picture of her friend Margaret Beaumont pushing her boy friend Claude Champagne down the cellar stairs of their house to break his neck an hour after he’d charmingly had his way with her younger sister.
Yes, it worked well, Maria decided. By viewing these events as what she called “imaginary speculation” she was able to ignore her visions and get on with her life. The fact that all these people had died pretty much in the way she had foreseen wasn’t her fault. So she’d worked hard to push her guilt deep into the recesses of her mind. After all, who could account for coincidence?
Maria wiped away a smudge of lipstick and her thoughts turned to the dance she was about to attend and the boys who would invariably ask her out. She was as thrilled by their attention as any young girl would be, but something seemed to hold her back. Officially allowed by her parents to start dating at 16, her sole experience so far had not been the best. She had spent most of the date fighting off a very good looking boy with more arms than an octopus in the front seat of his Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser at the drive-in movie. She was, after all, a good Catholic girl skilled in the art of saying no. And though she also felt guilt because the boy so obviously liked her, she could not bring herself to weaken and possibly compromise her virtue.
She sighed and put one last crimp in her full, dark eye lashes and lifted her chin for a final inspection in the mirror. The pixie-like face framed by the short brown hair curling under her chin, and her large brown eyes gave her a vulnerable, doe-like quality that turned most boys’ knees to mush. One boy had assessed her as having that quality that made men want to care for and protect her – dynamite when it came to arousing the paternal instincts of the male animal. But this, he asserted, was attractively offset by a perky sexiness that excited and thrilled the hormone-ruled young men. She had laughed at his analysis.
The school dance was featuring The Cobras, a popular local band specializing in 60s and 70s music by artists such as The Ventures and Duane Eddy. They usually offset their instrumentals with British Invasion pop including the Beatles, Cliff Richards, the Dave Clark Five and the Rolling Stones. Maria was looking forward to a strenuous night of dancing. Quickly she bent down and inhaled the heady fragrance from a single, long-stemmed yellow rose she’d bought on the way home from school. It was her favorite flower and she faithfully purchased one a week.
Finally she wriggled her way into her blue leotards and pulled them up under her red, tartan skirt. Her Dad, who was to drive her across the border to Sacred Heart High School, would be relieved she was finally ready. She twirled once in front of the mirror, her skirt rising up but not immodestly. She certainly didn’t want to be a tease, but she loved to dance. Perhaps there was one boy there who would be content to be her friend. That was all she needed right now.
~ 11 ~
The eyes were old but wise, Clay decided as the heavily lined face of an elderly man weaved into smoky focus. For a moment, he did not see the white Roman collar peaking from under the dark shirt. He blinked rapidly to clear away the fog in his eyes and sucked in a deep breath at the same time.
A ragged pain flashed through his chest but then disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Cautiously he filled his lungs with air again and watched the man; for the first time he realized that he was a civilian priest.
There was sadness in the priest’s face and a hint of resignation in his movements as he automatically undertook to perform some sort of ceremony. Clay watched as he mumbled softly in Latin and took a dab of something from a small silver container.
Abruptly the expression on the priest’s face gave way to surprise as he realized Clay was watching him.
The priest hurriedly set aside the metal container of oil and awkwardly removed a purple stole from around his neck. He turned and called frantically for a nurse.
Long forgotten Catechism lessons slowly seeped into Clay’s mind and he made sense of the ritual of the oil, the stole and those words; the priest was administering the Last Rites.
Great, he thought. I wake up and I’m dying. He tried to speak: “W-Water...?” His voice cracked dryly. He pulled the oxygen cannula aside.
“Lieutenant...my heavens...you’re awake! Wait, I’ll get water...! I’m father Gallo.”
He disappeared from view and Clay moved his hand weakly up to his face. Some sort of lubricating grease seemed to have been smeared around his eyes, nose and mouth. The priest reappeared with a white paper cup from which angled a plastic, bendy straw.
Clay sipped weakly. He cleared his throat and was rewarded with a mouthful of thick mucus. The priest held a tissue to his mouth. Awkwardly he spat. Father Gallo wiped the excess from his lips and smiled at him.
A moment later another face appeared above Clay.
“I’m Doctor Amond,” the man said in a professional, clipped voice as he snapped on a penlight and flashed it into Clay’s pupils.
Next he held up three fingers and asked Clay how many fingers he was holding up?
Clay gave him a tired grin and croaked a whisper: “Twenty-four?”
“Close enough,” Amond said, and returned the grin. “Now Lieutenant...can you move your fingers and toes?”
Clay complied and the doctor spun about to a nurse and fired off orders for a barrage of tests.
A blood pressure cuff was already being wrapped around Clay’s arm by a pretty, blond nurse who silently appeared from somewhere; another was checking a urine bag hanging by the side of his bed for fluids; and a third was slipping a thermometer under his tongue while taking his pulse
The doctor barked orders at the nurses and demanded the patient’s vitals, stat.
The nurses called out their results.
“Pulse 68...”
“R
espiration 16...
“BP 110 over 70...”
“Temperature 98.1...”
“We have output...”
A pretty brunette nurse appeared over Clay, twisted a rubber tourniquet around his arm, slapped a vein with her fingers and he felt the sharp stab of a needle. A sudden thought hit him. “M-My men! What about my men?”
“Forget about your men for now, Lieutenant,” Amond replied. “You’ve been in a coma of sorts for more than four months, my friend.”
“Four months?” Clay’s mind whirled.
The doctor continued speaking. “This morning you started slipping away from us. An hour ago you had the brain wave activity of a two-by-four, your kidneys were failing and your blood pressure was competing with your other vitals to see which could check out first. Next thing we know, you decide to wake up...all by your lonesome! You’re one lucky puppy.”
“W-Where am I?” Clay’s voice was still hoarse, weak and shaky.
“You’re in a veterans’ hospital in upstate New York.” He answered a question from a nurse, and then turned back. “Now you hang in there, soldier, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The doctor disappeared from view and Father Gallo’s face reappeared almost instantly. Clay saw that this time he was holding a black notebook and pen.
“Lieutenant,” he said in a whisper, “You spoke of the Hellspawn. How do you know of it?”
“What...?” Clay felt his pulse racing at the memory of a dark shadow squatting over PFC Osborne’s convulsing body. An alarm went off on the cardiac monitor somewhere over Clay’s head.
“You said many things while you were unconscious. The doctors thought you were hallucinating but I think I know what you saw. I must have information for Rome –.”
The Plan Page 6
