The Jesus Germ

by Brett Williams

  87

  Pope Luke entered his private chapel to collect the ciborium. When he twisted a tiny key in the stem of the cup, the disc at the base fell away. Finding the scrolls gone, his stomach convulsed, even under the moderating influence of his purple pills. He must question Sister Dorothea about events while he was isolated in the Sistine Chapel.

  After leaving his chapel he paraded along the halls of the Vatican attired in his finest religious regalia, delighting in his effect on those he encountered. They dropped to their knees, blessing themselves as he waved a sign of the cross in the air or placed a hand on their heads to impart God’s wisdom into their tiny brains. But he was so very humble, a popular Pope whose intelligence and charm endeared him to all. He was the greatest of actors. Astride the flight deck of a death star, the black robes of Darth Vader would sit easily on his shoulders and appeal immensely to his sense of fashion.

  Pope Luke summoned Sister Dorothea to his chamber. She kept her head bowed under her veil, eyes focused on the floor.

  ‘Please be seated, Sister. Do not be afraid. I am the man you have always known. Talk to me with the familiarity we shared when I was Cardinal.’

  ‘Yes, Holy Father.’ She would not engage his eyes.

  ‘I have a proposition, Sister.’

  Her humble heart beat like an African war drum. Pope Luke knew she was troubled. He calmed her before slicing at her Achilles heel.

  ‘Sister Justine has resigned as housemaid for the Pontificate. Sister, I would be honoured if you would fulfil the role for the duration of my Papacy.’

  ‘If it is God’s will.’

  ‘Then as God’s representative on Earth I welcome you, Sister. In anticipation of your acceptance I have arranged for you to meet with Sister Justine this afternoon.’

  Pope Luke offered his hand. She leant across the desk and kissed the Fisherman’s ring.

  ‘Sister, did you see anyone enter my private chapel during the conclave?’

  She flushed red and thought the African war drum would beat through her rib cage and pound its way across the floor. Her knees trembled. But she was honest as always.

  ‘Holy Father, I cleaned the chapel during that time, ready for your return.’

  ‘Did you polish the ciborium?’

  She decided to let the onslaught come to her. ‘Yes, Holy Father.’

  ‘Thank you for being so thoughtful, Sister. Is there anything else I should know?

  Her moral heart could not resist the inquiry. Tears dribbled down her cheeks.

  ‘Father, please forgive me for I dropped the cup and part of the base came away, but I put it back in place. It appeared to be in good order.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister, the cup is in perfect condition but did you notice anything inside the base or if something fell out of it?’

  ‘No, Father, it was empty.’

  ‘Did you take it somewhere, Sister?’

  ‘I heard a knock at the door soon after I dropped it but did not want anyone to see what I had done. I hurriedly collected the separate pieces and hid in the sacristy for an hour until I was sure the person had left. I managed to fit the base together and return the precious cup to its holy repository.’

  ‘You saw nothing on the floor?’

  ‘The only thing I vacuumed up was a spider lurking on the ceiling. Holy Father, I beg to ask what you might have lost.’

  ‘It is of no real importance, Sister. Did you empty the vacuum?’

  ‘No, Holy Father.’

  ‘Sister, do you know who entered the chapel while you were hiding?’

  ‘I saw no one, Holy Father, but it was someone with a key.’

  ‘Sister, you have acted appropriately. You have no need of forgiveness. God bless you and keep you safe.’

  He extended his hand over her as a sign to leave. She genuflected and turned toward the door, light in the knowledge her secret was freed from her soul, happy the Pontiff had reassured her.

  When she neared the door, he spoke. ‘The appointment with Sister Justine is in her quarters at 3 p.m. Your official duties will commence in two days.’

  She bowed reverently and left. The Swiss Guard watched her move along the corridor with a spring in her step.

  Reliable and stupidly honest, she would never lie. Her eternal salvation depended on it.

  Pope Luke returned to the chapel and checked the vacuum cleaner. It held a thin lining of dust and the mouldy spider Sister Dorothea had mentioned.

  He would not speak to Zachary or Father Stephen again if possible. He considered they might be preparing to blackmail him. Beyond blackmail and untouchable as ever, his twisted faith would never fail him. He would master the message of the scrolls. All things would come to him, acclaimed the Saviour, the great hope of salvation for the world.

  He wondered if they had the venom, undermining him, distributing it in the sacred blood of Christ, healing the bodies and souls of the faithful. He knew the risks. Those whose hearts were not cleansed in the confessional, invited disaster. Distribution of the cure in the sacrament of Communion spelled death for the unworthy.

  Men and women must earn the right to procreate now it had been taken from them. God would not have let Monique Zambeel release the germ into the world if it was not his explicit will. Pope Luke was jealous God saw fit to bestow the honour to a woman but reasoned his was not to question the Creator’s omnipotence. The Holy Mother of The Lord Jesus Christ was the instrument by which His saving grace poured into the world, and Miss Zambeel was the instrument by which the life source would be extinguished. It made perfect sense. God was indeed revealing Himself to him. The enlightenment had begun and Pope Luke believed it unrelated to the chemical cocktail swimming through the channels of his brain. He ached for control and his great strength of mind would restore it to him.

  In his chamber, Pope Luke leant back in his chair, surveying the stack of correspondence awaiting his attention, a chore he must endure for the rest of his pontificate. His first Papal tour abroad beckoned. God’s favourite son was a rock star in waiting.

  88

  Accusations against a reigning Pope would be difficult to substantiate. Even concrete proof would be stonewalled by an army of litigation. But there were other ways to dissolve the Papacy.

  On Rachel’s laboratory bench sat the clay tube, the scrolled message from Tiberius, plus the two scrolls from the wooden cube; all priceless artefacts, too profound for public consumption.

  Rachel had also discovered something astonishing about the Meroe scrolls. Around the edges of the papyrus were dozens of fingerprints visible only under ultraviolet light. Studying the whorls and loops, Rachel determined they were the ancient prints of two individuals. The eccrine glands on the papillary ridges of each finger had also left behind minute traces of sweat, sebum and lipids.

  From the secretions, she recovered several incomplete strands of DNA, building a template for each set of prints that turned up a most unexpected result. While the chromosomal structure of the female prints was typical and normal, the male set of chromosomes totalled twenty-four pairs instead of the usual twenty-three. Rachel knew the only complex animals with forty-eight chromosomes were chimpanzees and gorillas. If the prints did belong to Jesus Christ it would expose a theological minefield. Evolutionists would regard Jesus more ape than the Son of God, and the devout would proclaim it a heresy to destroy the very fibre of their beliefs.

  They might also be surprised by the other discovery Rachel made. The presence of cotinine (a nicotine metabolite) in the oily secretions that formed the male prints meant they belonged to a tobacco smoker.

  Whatever the truth, Jesus and cigarettes was an association Rachel had never contemplated. She photographed the male set of chromosomes and had the black-and-white print enlarged to poster size and bordered with dark grey matting on which she superimposed transparencies of the thumb prints in silver. She signed her name in the bottom-right-hand corner in white ink, and protected the composition with glass and an ornate gold frame
better suited to a fifteenth century masterpiece.

  Rachel submitted it to a local art competition, entitling it Ape of Apes? Not designed to offend anyone, it was too cryptic to prompt any sacrilegious analogy. Instead, gallery patrons gazed unsuspectingly at a veiled reference to the King of Kings, the title given Jesus in the Book of Revelation.

  The genes of Jesus attracted passing interest, but no more than many of the other artworks on display.

  Rachel gave up one other item after some consideration. An arachnologist attached to the natural history museum of Rome collected the tarantula found on the cube in Meroe, proclaiming Rachel a philanthropic goddess.

  ‘What are we going to do with this stuff, Zachary?’

  ‘Hide it. We can’t offer it to the Church with Venti at its head and it has no relevance to anyone else. And we don’t need another Shroud of Turin.’

  ‘There is a better solution.’

  He raised his blonde eyebrow. ‘Pray tell.’

  ‘Destroy it all with fire so that when we’re dead these secrets will die with us.’

  ‘They are important historical documents and artefacts. I don’t want to be rid of them yet. One day I will present them to a righteous Pope.

  ‘Rachel, I’ve decided to return to the practice of my faith. I read an excerpt from the Bible that I recalled from my childhood. John 14:2; If it were not so, I would have told you; a pointless statement unless it’s true.’

  ‘Or Jesus was just a guru messing with minds.’

  ‘I see it as a building block of faith.’

  ‘Are you entering a seminary?’

  Zachary knew Rachel would make light of his view. He put his arms around her shoulders.

  ‘There’ll be none of that, Zachary Smith.’

  But she kissed him and memories of Vegas came flooding back.

  89

  The square brown envelope was simply addressed: Pope Luke, c/o Vatican City. That it got as far as his desk, meant it had been carefully screened and deemed suitable for inclusion in his private correspondence. The smudged postmark showed it was mailed from Ecuador ten days prior. The two stamps on the front depicted a Blue-Footed Booby and a marine iguana, part of a new issue featuring Galapagos wildlife.

  Pope Luke slit the envelope with a gold-plated letter opener, removing a single piece of coarse paper, imperfectly folded in half. He sensed a treasure map drawn with sailing ships, pirates and an ‘X’ to mark a buried chest filled with diamonds and pearls. But even more appealing was a note neatly written in longhand in the same blue ink as on the envelope.

  27 Valdivia Road

  Cotocollao,

  Quito,

  Ecuador.

  Your Holiness, Pope Luke,

  You may recall our brief encounter on Darwin Island some months ago, and are no doubt aware of the island’s spectacular demise at the hands of Mother Nature. I recognised you in the many photographs published since your election to the Papacy, bringing to mind the offer you made to me, being most generous in light of the tone in which I treated you and your friend.

  I find myself in need of a new home and humbly approach your most holy office for its consideration. I recollect your interest in a rare spider you hoped to find on Darwin and advise there is one live specimen in existence. If this knowledge can facilitate a meeting between us, I eagerly await your correspondence.

  Professor Robert Hyde.

  Pope Luke caressed the letter between his fingers. His prayers had been answered sooner than expected. God loved His Pope. The anticipation of obtaining the venom was enough to satiate him without a purple pill. He only wished Professor Hyde had e-mail to quickly arrange his visit to the Vatican.

  Pope Luke wrote a brief note, sealed it in a white envelope and summoned Sister Dorothea, instructing her to deliver it by the fastest possible means. Now his patience would be severely tested and he thought of ways the letter might fail to reach its destination. If Hyde or the spider were lost, his power over the world would vanish.

  Pope Luke knelt before a marble statue of Christ, bowing his head in prayer. From his heart of darkness, he asked for the Domino Cardinal’s deliverance into his private chamber. He would give Hyde whatever he wanted, and wondered what exactly the eccentric Professor might demand in exchange for the venom.

  Worry slowly overcame the joy of a chance to fulfil his dream. Pope Luke craved more than the purple pills. He’d resisted until now, continuing to deny the powder’s powerful lure. The discipline of denial, also a drug, galvanised his inner strength. Victory over temptation added greater potency to his burgeoning influence.

  Whether through his own intelligence or the divine instruction of his Lord, Pope Luke knew the dangers of dependence. Hard drugs might etch his polished exterior; change his appeal to those close to him, increasing his vulnerability to attack from perilous forces within the circle of cardinals, imagined or otherwise. Purple was safe, a good omen. People Eaters, Rain and Hearts, Klingon blood, Domino Cardinals and Jedi Windu’s light-sabre. Some of the best things in life were purple. Pope Luke was crazy but to what extent he could not judge for himself.

  90

  Each afternoon as tropical rains poured onto the bungalow roof, Professor Hyde took off his shirt, and wearing only khaki shorts, walked the winding road through the tobacco fields. He welcomed the squelch of mud between his toes, luxuriating in it after twenty-five years treading the crushed volcanic glass of Darwin Island.

  The road cut through a fence guarded by tall Inca totems carved from teak – protectors of the tobacco crops. An oak wine barrel served as a letter box, number twenty-seven hand-painted in white above the mail slot, a small hinged door at the back.

  Professor Hyde checked the barrel every day after posting his letter to the Vatican. On the fifteenth day, there was a plain envelope addressed to him. He took a plastic bag from his shorts, sealed the envelope inside and made the delicious walk back to the bungalow in a downpour.

  On the deck, he towelled off, took out the damp envelope, tore at the flap and plucked out the single unremarkable sheet of white paper inscribed with a handwritten note.

  Call this number: 0039007666007. Quote Judas Iscariot.

  Pope Luke 1.

  Hyde sensed urgency in the succinct and emotionless reply, the postmark stamped just two days prior. The phone number’s inclusion meant an exchange of letters would be unacceptably slow. Inside the bungalow, he grabbed the phone as the rain eased to a patter on the roof. He dialled the number and waited expectantly.

  ‘Buona sera.’

  The Italian greeting confused him for a moment.

  ‘Judas Iscariot,’ he said, hopefully.

  ‘One moment, sir,’ the operator said, reverting to English. Brief silence ushered in a new voice.

  ‘Professor Hyde, I’ve been awaiting your call. I believe we can do business.’

  Hyde was surprised by the directness of the address.

  ‘It seems a distinct possibility, Your Holiness.’

  ‘You must call me Michael. Do you have the tarantula, Robert?’

  Hyde’s late mother was the last person to call him Robert.

  ‘Yes, I do, Michael.’ Hyde felt uncomfortable, as Pope Luke hoped he would.

  ‘I will send for you at the address on your letter and provide an escort to Rome. Bring the tarantula with you, Robert. Do you understand, my friend?’

  ‘I will be waiting with the spider, Michael, but without a passport.

  ‘Don’t worry. A Vatican diplomat will ensure you travel unhindered.’

  ‘When can I expect your representative, Michael?’

  ‘Within three days, Robert. God bless you and keep you safe.’

  The phone hung up. Hyde cast an eye over the sodden fields of tobacco, folded the note and put it back inside the sticky envelope. Jimmy scratched at the sides of his box and Hyde took it as a sign of approval.

  On a clear sunny morning, less than forty-eight hours after speaking to Pope Luke, a bright yellow taxi came
for Professor Hyde. A casually dressed man in the back seat got out, looking flustered in the heat. Hyde waited on the edge of the verandah.

  ‘Professor Robert Hyde, I presume.’ The man identified Hyde from Pope Luke’s description of him, offering his hand to shake. ‘Harold Blake - Swiss Guard.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Harold, let me collect my luggage.’

  He grabbed a small backpack from his bedroom and tucked a brown shoe box, punched with holes for ventilation, under his arm. The driver opened the taxi door, and Hyde slid onto the shiny back seat ahead of the Swiss Guard.

  As they drove away, Hyde thought of his future; of days lived in quiet contemplation.

  The taxi edged through traffic toward Quito International Airport. Harold Blake was an enthusiastic young man half Hyde’s age. It was not his place to inquire into the Professor’s business, instead he talked of Ecuador and the Galapagos Islands, awed by their history and beauty, particularly eager to impart his knowledge of the recent eruptions on Darwin and Wolf Islands, unaware Hyde was in the very cauldron of destruction.

  Jimmy scratched away.

  ‘What’s in the box?’ Blake said.

  ‘A canary,’ Hyde said. ‘In Rome, I will buy her a cage where she can stretch her wings and sing to her hearts content.’

  ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘Pixel,’ popped into Hyde’s head.

  The taxi dropped them in front of the terminal where they checked in at an isolated counter. Blake spoke to an attendant who led them down a passageway and through a red door onto the tarmac. A white Lear jet, with the Papal insignia stamped behind the nose-cone, was parked away from the commercial aircraft. The pilot, standing at the bottom of the stairway, directed the two men up into the cabin.

  Hyde had not boarded a plane in almost three decades. Blake encouraged him to relax and sleep if he wished. Two meals were served during the eleven-hour flight, and Jimmy could occasionally be heard scratching at the walls of his shoe box.