With the Holy Venom in his grasp, he was the keeper of time, and all the time there ever was. Unless God took him suddenly he would remain the master of mans’ universe.
92
The last human beings were born into the world. While great minds worked on repairing the dysfunctional genes necessary for reproduction, Pope Luke decried suggestions of cloning as unnatural and not of God’s design.
War would only speed depletion of the gene pool, a solitary fact that spared America from annihilation. U.S. forces quickly withdrew from every foreign soil. All countries were keen to preserve their dwindling populations, and none would tolerate American interference. China assumed the mantle of most powerful nation on Earth.
In the financial world, some multinational companies drove on without regard for the end. Others diverted their resources into assisting research for a cure. The quest to restore fertility left the issues of global warming, carbon trading and greenhouse gases in the cold. NASA abandoned its space program, and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation directed the bulk of its resources to finding a solution.
Men and women were tormented by the grim reality of their predicament. Soon, a baby’s cry was rare as a Dodo Bird’s squawk.
Sonja Zambeel gave birth to a healthy boy weighing exactly nine pounds. He had his father’s cobalt eyes.
The Zambeel sisters had organized a seventieth birthday celebration for their mother at the chateaux. But none had seen Sonja since their father’s funeral and subsequent reading of his will, and she was the last to arrive.
Monique observed a silver SUV park on the gravel area beneath the kitchen window. Sonja stepped out, immaculately dressed. When she opened the back of the vehicle, Monique expected her to pull out a suitcase. Instead, she rolled out a pram. Then she leant inside the car and came out holding a baby.
Monique’s temples throbbed, her face flushed. She suddenly sensed her grip on the chateau slipping away.
She watched Sonya enter the front door and heard her climb the stairs to the first floor.
Monique hurried to the sitting room and sat in a deep velvet chair opposite the empty fireplace with her back to the doorway. She stared where the winter fire once crackled, longing for the warm flames to thaw the ice block in the pit of her stomach.
Sonja broke the cold silence.
‘Hi, Monique, where is everyone?’
Monique turned with her hand to her chest in mock surprise. She quickly studied Sonja’s face and the baby in the crook of her arm.
‘Meet your nephew. His name is Jacques.’
She offered him to Monique who cradled him in her arms, eyes flitting between Sonja and the child, waiting for an explanation.
‘Where’s Mum? Are Helena and Raquel here?’
‘They’re in the garden. Do they know about Jacques?’
Sonja didn’t answer. She took the baby from Monique and descended the stairs out onto the lawn, waiting to be noticed. Helena squeezed her mother’s arm, gently directing her attention. Jacques let out a hungry cry. For a moment, the world wilted under the weight of unspoken thoughts. Monique peered through a tiny window to see what would happen next.
Giselle Zambeel walked toward Sonja and put a loving hand to her cheek.
‘Your grandson, Jacques Zambeel,’ Sonja said.
Giselle took him, examining his face. His eyes shone, a little grin melted her heart. She hugged him close, nestling his head into her wrinkled neck. Helena and Raquel tentatively engaged Sonja, exchanging frail kisses.
Monique moved away from the window, her fury building, deceived by Sonja’s ploy to gain ownership of the chateau.
She busied herself washing dishes in the sink as the women ascended the stairs and entered the kitchen. A cup slipped from her hand, smashing on the tiled floor, and she asked Sonja to pick up the pieces.
‘What did your last servant die of, Monique?’
‘The harlot got pregnant, never knew the father and died in a gutter with a needle in her arm.’
‘Monique, that’s enough!’ Giselle said.
‘What a sad story.’ Sonja’s sarcasm added fuel to the fire.
‘Within the bond of matrimony, whore! Martin’s will was explicit,’ Monique said.
‘Jealousy is a terrible curse,’ Sonya said, pulling a square of paper from her jean’s pocket and throwing it onto the table in front of Monique.
‘Go ahead, read it.’
Monique snatched it, agitated at obeying Sonja’s instruction but wildly curious at the crumpled sheet. She scanned it quickly and tore it in half.
‘The piece of paper really means little, Monique. The marriage is officially registered in Paris.’
‘You’re not wearing a ring,’ Monique said.
Giselle sobbed quietly.
‘This is unnecessary,’ Helena said, putting an arm around her mother.
‘Jacques had only to be conceived in matrimony. The divorce is also registered in Paris, not that it matters now. I believe I have inherited the chateau,’ Sonya said as Jacques began to whine.
‘Pig!’ Monique said.
Giselle raised her voice and because she rarely did, her four daughters were instantly attentive. ‘Enough, enough! This is not in the spirit of your father’s will. He expected greater things of you all. Technically, the chateau is yours, Sonya, but I encourage you to examine your heart. Why argue over a title deed? If anything, I imagined the insidious disease that has beset the world might focus us on the more important values in our lives. Martin’s will is a symbol of his enduring love, not a fiscal opportunity. I am hurt and angered. You have been blessed with good health and unlimited money. Be grateful. God knows it is more than most could ever dream of.’
She took Jacques from Sonja and adjourned to the sitting room. Helena and Raquel could have protested their innocence but they knew too well the thoughts of owning the chateau had crossed their minds only to be scuttled by the mysterious disease that had rendered them barren.
The dressing down did not evaporate the ill-will as Giselle had hoped. Without warning Monique stepped toward Sonja, stinging her with an open hand across her face. The force of it turned her head, leaving a red welt on her cheek. Monique ran from the kitchen, down the stairs and out the front door. Her anger was not for what Sonja had done but because smashing the ornament meant it could never be undone to her advantage. She had cut off her nose to spite her face, the scar a permanent and eternal reminder of her selfishness and the immovable guilt that slowly but surely was crushing her.
Giselle Zambeel rocked Jacques to sleep in her lap when the gunshot echoed down the valley.
Helena screamed and Raquel joined the panic. They rushed down the stairs and when they rounded the corner of the barn its big oak doors were wide open. They kept walking, dreading the scene their imaginations were already creating. When they peered into the grey light of the barn, their preconceptions had ill-prepared them.
Sonja stood over Monique, staring impassively down at her remains. Monique lay in the straw next to a shotgun. The smell of burnt powder stung the air, laced with death, evil and everything in between. Monique’s head was splattered and splintered over the barn, into the rafters and hay bales. A portion of her scalp with hair attached, hung neatly on a nail, swinging wet and red on a draft coming through the doors. A pool of blood expanded under her body, seeping from her open neck, soaking into the straw-covered floor. Her body lay straight; the expensive designer clothes a ghastly adornment on her limp corpse.
Helena and Raquel held their hands to their mouths. Raquel vomited and it burst through her fingers like porridge, dripping into the gravel. Her stomach convulsed twice more until she had nothing left to give.
They stared to ensure their eyes had not deceived them.
Giselle got out of her chair. Holding Jacques, she took the stairs one at a time. Three steps below the landing she missed her footing and collapsed. Her bony shins and arms cracked across the stair edging until she crumpled in a pile at the front
door. Jacque’s soft pate dented like a melon against the wall and he knew nothing of this world or the next.
93
Following Monique Zambeel’s death, came an unexpected development in the clandestine affairs of the Catholic Church. Sister Bernadette, in the cloistered Vatican convent of the contemplative order of Mater Ecclesiae, was with child. She gave no explanation for her condition, adhering to her vows of silence, continuing her usual routine of prayer and cleaning chores.
None in the Order considered the blessing a divine miracle, instead they speculated intensely on with whom the nun committed such an unholy act that so willingly betrayed her chastity and her God.
Sister Bernadette retained a joyous temperament amidst the whispers and gossip. When her condition became embarrassingly evident, she was confined within the convent.
Her tranquil disposition became an unwitting example to all who observed her or had the pleasure of her company. Sister Bartholomew remarked it was as though the Mother of God had been delivered to them down an errant time line. Sister Bernadette’s aura transfixed even the most disapproving among them.
The pregnancy was a tightly guarded secret, trapped within the convent’s walls. When Pope Luke paid an unexpected visit, Sister Bernadette was hidden away until he’d left.
In her eighth month, the order confronted the problems they knew were inevitable. The child could not be raised in the convent much beyond the time of its birth. Perhaps Sister Bernadette would renounce her vows and return to life on the outside. However, the Order would not oust her for what she had done. When Father Stephen came to hear weekly confessions, Sister Bernadette not once availed herself of the Sacrament.
Mysteriously, Pope Luke became aware of Sister Bernadette’s plight. He was not surprised. She had succumbed to temptation in the misguided belief she was safe from conceiving, unaware of the implications of attending Mass in the Sistine Chapel and receiving Communion. Her unknown partner also partook of the life giving Holy Blood and Venom, oblivious to the trap the Pontiff had set.
Two Vatican priests resigned their vows in the year after the Mass. No law of God or man could prevent them leaving but neither were responsible for Sister Bernadette’s condition.
On a warm night, near dawn, a scream echoed through the convent corridors. Sister Bernadette broke her silence for the first time in seven months with the first pangs of child birth upon her. She suffered a seven-hour labour and finally her cries of pain were replaced with a new cry as a son was born to her, testing his lungs with his first deep breaths of life. His reproductive chromosomes were functional and incorruptible.
The nuns assisting Sister Bernadette took deep breaths of their own, for the child was dark-skinned.
After washing him, Sister Bartholomew wrapped the boy in a blanket and gave him to his mother. The nuns ensured her comfort, dutifully tending to her throughout the day and into the night. In the early hours of the next morning she fell into an exhausted sleep and the child was placed in a small crib at the foot of her bed where he too slept peacefully.
At 9 a.m., Sister Bernadette sat propped up in her bed with a dozen comfortable pillows. She suckled the child, ate a breakfast of poached eggs on toast and drank a mug of sweet black tea.
Sister Bartholomew sat nearby in a chair.
‘Do you have a name for him, Sister Bernadette?’
With the pain of labour gone, her vow of silence had easily returned. Sister Bartholomew did not persist. She felt calm and fulfilled gazing on mother and child. Sister Bernadette started to doze, so she took the child from her and laid him in the crib. As she did, Sister Bernadette spoke softly with her eyes shut.
‘Joseph.’
Sister Bartholomew thought it might be the name of the child or its father. Whatever the case, Sister Bernadette never repeated it.
On a sunny morning, a week after the birth, Sister Bernadette gave Sister Bartholomew a sealed envelope with written instructions on when, where and how to deposit it in the Pauline Chapel.
On the same morning, Sister Bartholomew, as head of the Mater Ecclesiae, received a letter from Pope Luke confirming his knowledge of the birth. He ordered the child be removed from the convent within three days to a small town outside the hills of Rome into the care of a family. Pope Luke feared rumours were already circulating about the illegitimate birth, and soon the waves of inquiry would overcome the walls of denial and reveal the awkward truth. He would allow Sister Bernadette to remain a part of the convent community to preserve the integrity of the Order to the outside world.
Sister Bartholomew walked to the Pauline Chapel in the dark of night, knelt at the end of the front right pew and fixed the envelope to the underside of the seat with tape. The envelope was required to be in place by 9 a.m. Alone in the dimly lit chapel she said a prayer then left, puzzling over Sister Bernadette’s private communications to facilitate the envelopes retrieval.
Sister Bartholomew left the convent after morning prayers to attend 9 a.m. Mass in the Pauline Chapel and remain there the entire day fasting and praying. Previously she had steamed open the envelope to devour the words scribbled on the page inside. By sunset she would learn of Sister Bernadette’s secret contact.
During Mass the hidden envelope remained untouched. Afterwards, tour groups admired the chapel’s artworks. Sister Bartholomew moved to a pew furthest from the altar. She knelt near the aisle, resting her head in her hands, appearing in deep prayer but attentive to everything around her. By midday her knees ached and she sat up to revive the circulation in her legs. The first hours of her fast were the most difficult but after came acute wakefulness and clarity.
It happened at 5 p.m. During an intense and fruitful bout of prayer, Sister Bartholomew watched a Swiss Guard walk along the aisle toward the altar. He genuflected, knelt in the first pew, made the sign of the cross and bowed his head in prayer. He reached under the pew, retrieved the envelope, tucked it in the front of his blue and yellow Medici jacket and left the chapel.
Thy will be done. I am the handmaid of the Lord. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ has come again.
Returning to the convent under a blood-red sky, Sister Bartholomew reflected on the delusional message steamed from the envelope. Tonight, after the child was removed, the nuns would revert to prayer and abstinence, away from the distraction of Sister Bernadette and her mysterious son.
At 2 a.m., Sister Bartholomew walked quietly along the stone corridor to Sister Bernadette’s room. The child slept in its crib, a soft nightlight casting misshaped shadows around the walls. Sister Bartholomew gathered up the child who briefly opened his eyes. She wrapped him in a blanket, held him easily in one arm and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Sister Bernadette saw everything through lightly closed eyes and rolled onto her side, squeezing tears onto her pillow.
On the front seat of the car, Sister Bartholomew placed a cane basket softened with a small foam mattress and a lamb’s skin rug. She laid the child inside and fastened the seat belt over it. Amidst plumes of exhaust, she switched on the headlights and drove across a cobblestoned piazza out of the confines of the Vatican.
The traffic thinned on the outskirts of Rome, the stars burning brightly in the clear night sky. The highway narrowed up through the hills and Sister Bartholomew felt increasingly lonely. She regularly glanced at the child sleeping blissfully, unaware of the ructions he had caused.
She turned off the highway into a dark road, with just the funnel of headlights to dispel the gloom. A rusting yellow church sign pointed down a side street and she drove along it a short distance and stopped.
Sister Bartholomew carried the child in the basket past the side of the church to a small house at the back. She kissed his forehead, left him on the porch against the door, pressed the doorbell and walked away. When nearly past the church, a light came on at the front of the house. Sister Bartholomew watched from the shadows as a young woman opened the door, scanned the night then picked up the basket a
s if she had been expecting it.
Sister Bartholomew exited the street in her car and sped away, eager to arrive back at the convent in time for pre-dawn prayers.
She had followed the directives for delivering the child, and now she worried for its future. Driving off the hills into the city outskirts, a splashing gold meteor scoured the heavens and an unholy feeling overwhelmed her.
In the coming days, the nuns were dismayed by the child’s sudden disappearance from the convent, while Sister Bernadette maintained her beatific demeanour. Their anxiety turned inward, contemplative prayer degenerating into scurrilous gossip. Some suggested Sister Bernadette had in some way disposed of the child, although how she kept her quietly joyous facade in light of such dreadful accusations was beyond comprehension. The unresolved truth ate at the very fabric of the Order, until Sister Bartholomew decided to put an end to the speculation. She informed others of the child’s fate and word spread quickly so that soon after, every soul inside the convent knew he was now in the care of a more traditional family to be raised without suspicion; every soul except Sister Bernadette. Although she had no inkling of his whereabouts, she knew he was destined to leave her. The nuns marvelled at her quiet courage and ability to transcend the mental anguish torturing her being.
As time passed the incident became deeply entrenched in convent folklore. But by the time the last generation of nuns learnt of it there were doubts about its authenticity, and in the end, it was regarded as nothing more than a dubious if not spurious tale of moral abandonment.
94
Pope Luke put the final touches to his weekly message then walked to Pope Paul VI Hall to deliver it in front of a general audience and a spattering of reporters.
Warm applause welcomed Pope Luke to the stage as camera flashes accompanied him to his white throne. A hush descended on the hall. He adjusted a microphone and took two sheets of folded paper from his robe.
The Jesus Germ Page 40
