Chapter 38
The Sword of She-God is said to impart superhuman strength to its user.
—Davida Lewis, Legends of the UWW
Following a meeting with her council, Dixie Lou Jackson hurried off, to inspect construction work in the papal offices, which she was impatient to see completed. Under constant pressure from her, Vatican work crews were laboring like ants energized by caffeine, running back and forth with building materials, hammering, drilling, sawing. They were going around the clock, in twelve-hour shifts.
During the afternoon session, members of her council had asked her to accept an offer General Selkirk of NATO had made to them that day, but she told them she was going to refuse it. In the offer, NATO gave them seventy-two hours to accept amnesty for Dixie Lou and the rest of the Holy She leadership, in exchange for the release of Pope Rodrigo, Martha of Galilee, and the return of the Vatican. NATO also offered to establish a new world headquarters for the women, and to assist them in providing security for it. If Dixie Lou didn’t accept what he called a “generous offer,” the General threatened unspecified “dire consequences.”
“He’s bluffing,” Dixie Lou had said, as she tore his letter to pieces and scattered it around the chamber.
“But what if he isn’t?” Deborah Marvel asked.
“I was wondering about that, too,” Nancy Winters said.
“Just leave the important decisions to me,” Dixie Lou snapped. And then she called the meeting to a close. . . .
Now, with great satisfaction, she watched two men installing green-and-orange wallpaper inside her large new office, as yet unoccupied. Artisans had erected a splendid work of art behind the location for her desk, a pair of sculpted female hands with their palms upturned, where she would place the sacred Sword of She-God . . . the legendary weapon that she intended to employ any time she found it necessary.
When the men glanced at her nervously, the Grand Messenger smiled inwardly. Undoubtedly, their extra effort had something to do with the gleaming sword, which she brandished whenever she gave them orders.
And when they were finished with all of the offices, she had other work for them to do, a number of remodeling projects to the Vatican City buildings.
But little did she know that the ongoing noises would soon muffle subterranean activities under the streets near Vatican City . . . the approach of an army.
* * *
Two days passed, and it was Palm Sunday. . . .
“You are more comfortable here?” Dixie Lou inquired, in the most polished tone she could muster. Holding the Sword of She God, she stood in an apartment of the Vatican Palace looking down at the angular, elderly man who had not risen to greet her. A hall guard closed the door and remained out in the corridor. It was more than a week since she’d had the Pope moved out of the Pauline Chapel into this heavily guarded apartment, which had previously been servant’s quarters.
Substantially better than the earlier, rudimentary quarters she had provided for him, this was still far beneath the style in which he was accustomed to living. But it was as good as he was going to get, since she wanted him to remind on a daily basis that he now occupied a station subordinate to her own, because she had vanquished him.
I could make this ‘Servant of Christ’ my own attendant if I wished to do so, she thought. He might even make a suitable butler, with his snooty ways.
Dressed in a simple white robe, Pope Rodrigo sat at a vargueño—a seventeenth century Spanish writing cabinet—that had been brought from his former office, which Dixie Lou was remodeling for her own use. The mahogany cabinet, containing numerous interior drawers and compartments and (known only to its owner) a hidden storage drawer for an old family crucifix, was decorated with geometrical pieces of ivory and mother-of-pearl. With the drop-down lid open, the Pope had been writing something.
Barely looking at her, he continued scribbling with a black-and-gold pen, which he occasionally dipped into an ink well. He had a fresh piece of palm frond pinned to one lapel of his white robe, in honor of Palm Sunday. With only a week until Easter, the pontiff felt empty inside, and frustrated at the course of events. Why did all of this have to occur right before the holiest of all Christian holidays, the celebration of the resurrection and eternal life of Jesus Christ? Pope Rodrigo sighed in reluctant acceptance. The ways of God were not always clear, not even to him.
“It is customary to show respect for one’s superior,” Dixie Lou said.
“Es verdad,” he replied. It is true. But still he did not rise.
Dixie Lou felt her face heat up. “I am the Grand Messenger of the Holy She! You don’t consider me your superior?” With great fanfare, she flourished the magnificent sword, and examined the hilt with the priceless Vatican jewels embedded in it.
“You are carrying on a conversation with yourself, making your own assumptions.”
“I will excuse your impertinence this time, Pope Rodrigo. What are you writing?”
His gaze slid casually to the sword, then away. “A letter to my mother in Segovia. She turns ninety-nine next week.”
“You’ll be that old one day, too, but only if you cooperate with me.”
With a disdainful expression he continued writing, making broad pen strokes on the heavy parchment paper. Despite his own age, his black hair remained thick, with only a few streaks of silver.
“Don’t try to sneak any code phrases into that. We’ll catch you if you do.”
“Did you come here to tell me that?”
“A couple of days ago we received an ‘offer’ from NATO.”
“I am aware of it,” he said. “Amnesty for you and your fellow criminals if you relinquish control of the Vatican and release the hostages. They are also offering to help you establish a new headquarters. Perhaps Monte Konos can be restored.”
“How did you—”
“God and I have long conversations,” the Pope interjected. “I am praying for your soul, but I must inform you, your activities are interfering with the sacred duties of the Roman Catholic Church.”
“Such as?” She swished the sword through the air to within a meter of him, but the irritatingly brave Pope seemed unconcerned by it.
“Oh, many things. I should be delivering a sermon today, in honor of Palm Sunday. Tomorrow I was scheduled to perform a sainthood ceremony for Benito Sanchez, the brave South American priest who was murdered by a police death squad. This is Holy Week, and next Sunday is Easter. You profess to believe in our savior Jesus Christ, so you should understand.”
With a scowl, Dixie Lou said, “Jesus existed, but he was not my savior. I’m a woman, pledged to She-God Almighty.” Although Dixie Lou believed in Jesus Christ as a historical figure, she didn’t believe in God or even She-God; she was just playing a part, a much more complicated one than her thespian-like son had ever attempted. Unlike him, Dixie Lou vowed, she would succeed in concealing her true self from others. A tributary of this thought jarred her, an awareness of something else in her past that she could not quite remember, but which clung to her nonetheless, like the stench of death. What was her true self?
“This should be a festival week for Catholicism,” Pope Rodrigo said, “and instead you have turned it into sadness. But our faith is strong, and this is but another travail.”
“How about me?” Dixie Lou said. “When are you going to make me a saint? Has a nice sound, doesn’t it?—Saint Dixie Lou.”
Pope Rodrigo set down his pen and folded the letter carefully. “You are not Catholic, madam, not even close.”
“You would prevent me from converting?”
His face was parched, wrinkled. It revealed little emotion, not even in the dark-green eyes, which now gazed up at her dispassionately. “I didn’t say that.”
“You’re a tricky one, aren’t you? Popes must be trained that way, or born that way. I read about some of your predecessors, the double lives they led, the sexual liaisons, the intrigues, the political murders. One of them may even have secretly been a woman,
Pope Joan.”
He didn’t respond.
She glared at him. “The Pope Joan story might just be a legend, but I bet you have the records around here somewhere to prove it one way or the other, don’t you?”
Again, no response.
“As for the Vatican,” she said. “I feel secure here, much more than at Monte Konos.” She scratched her chin. “I know what! You and I can share Vatican City, under my jurisdiction, of course. I’ll permit you to perform occasional ceremonies here. We’ll coordinate our schedules. You can either do that, or become my personal manservant.”
“Preposterous.” His face reddened. “I am the Pope of more than a billion Roman Catholics!”
“And I’m Dixie Lou Jackson, the most important woman on earth.” She paused, and smiled tightly. “Come to think of it, there are billions and billions of women on this planet, so my influence is greater than yours. In fact, women form a large share of your membership, and they’re already flocking to my cause.”
“Earth is but a way station,” the old man said, “an inglorious realm of pain and suffering.”
“God told you that, did He? Well, tell Him this for me. Tell Him I don’t accept NATO’s offer.”
* * *
In the deepest darkness of night, a squadron of stealth bombers took off from a US Navy aircraft carrier in the eastern Mediterranean. The electronically invisible aircraft took separate courses, each with an assignment from NATO.
Within an hour seven direct hits were reported, three against underground bases operated by the Holy She . . . in Sicily, southern Albania, and Greece. Additional strikes took out Bureau of Ideology assets: a communication station in Germany, a paramilitary training facility in Morocco, and a satellite launch pad in Spain.
Chapter 39
All popular religions feature miracles. The essential question to answer is this: Are the supernatural occurrences real, or counterfeit? And who is to tell the difference?
—Amy Angkor-Billings, private journal
NATO’s seventy-two hour deadline came and went, like a ticking time bomb that did not go off when the clock struck zero.
At shortly before dawn the next day, Zack Markwether pounded on his daughter’s bedroom door, then turned the handle and pushed. The door stuck against a tight jamb, finally opened. “Thirty minutes to get out of here,” he said.
“Only thirty minutes?” Lori said to her father, as she swung out of bed.
“Operation Deliverance is set to go.”
“I’ll be ready.” But she didn’t feel ready.
“Dress warmly,” he said. “It’s cold in the tunnel.” He turned and left.
So, it’s now, she thought, rising uncertainly to her feet. . . .
Lori had slept fitfully, having felt ill during the night, as she did now. A couple of hours ago, she had hurried into the bathroom and vomited. Upon coming out, she had encountered Alex in the hallway. “Are you all right?” he had asked.
“Sick to my stomach. Case of nerves, I guess, or a touch of the flu.”
He had looked at her oddly, with a half smirk. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Sorry, I’m half asleep myself, don’t know what I’m saying.”
“You certainly don’t. No, I’m not pregnant! I’ve never been with a man.” This was not entirely true, because she was not a virgin. The year before, she had slept with a boy her age in Seattle, certainly not a man. That liaison had been so long ago that she could not possibly be pregnant.
During her conversation with Alex, the she-apostles had come out of the two rooms they shared, and had watched her silently. One of them, Mary Magdalene, had stepped forward and communicated with her in an ancient, secret way. Not spoken words, just a concise expression on the she-apostle’s face that shocked Lori.
You are with child, the she-apostle had told her. The Child of God.
Since then the teenager had been lying awake, thinking back, trying to comprehend, wanting to believe that Mary Magdalene’s words had only been a dream. . . .
Lori dressed hurriedly. She had been wondering when the NATO attack would occur. There were rumors that General Selkirk had given Dixie Lou a deadline, but neither she nor her father had been able to find out for certain. This morning, fearing Zack would prevent her from going on the mission if he knew she wasn’t feeling well, she resolved to say nothing about this to him—and quickly told Alex not to say anything, either.
With her hair wild and her teeth hardly brushed, Lori accompanied her father and Alex to the basement parking garage. Zack, his overcoat open at the front to reveal his uniform, handed out coffee in covered paper cups. The three of them piled into the back of an unmarked van. Their NATO driver—wearing a coat over his own uniform—made sure they were in, then sped out of the garage.
On the way, Lori sipped her coffee silently, hoping it would keep her alert for this important day. She already had a head full of monumental concerns, and new events were sure to crowd in. She felt as if she were in the middle of a great, swirling storm, and it was thrusting her forward to an uncertain future, intensifying moment by moment.
Pregnant?
She took another sip of coffee, and nearly choked on it from her worries.
“Are you all right?” Zack asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, lying. She coughed several times, having aspirated the warm liquid.
The driver of the van, an Italian sergeant, looked back, then focused on negotiating the streets. It was just getting daylight, and only a few cars and trucks were out. They passed a sidewalk market, where vendors were arriving with fruits and vegetables, setting up their stands.
It all became a haze to Lori, because ever since Mary Magdalene’s startling assertion she had been thinking of the vision of light that had entered her desert tent and taken her away for the briefest of instants, so ephemeral that the experience had been like a dream, but a very vivid one. Where had the strange light taken her, or seemed to have taken her? She could not recall, but did remember feeling the powerful, protective presence of the Lord during the journey. The visitation had lasted for only a few seconds . . . maybe even less than that.
Now an intense sensation came over her, a powerful epiphany that could not be denied. The event had been as real as real could be, and she had journeyed a long way, indeed. Of that she was certain, with sudden clarity. It had not been a dream, nor had Mary Magdalene’s unspoken bombshell only hours ago.
Truth without words, she thought.
Another presence had been in the vision as well, a cold, inky darkness behind the light, larger than the light. Lori shivered, and began to tremble. Supernatural pregnancies did not occur—with one exception, to her knowledge.
Mary, Mother of Jesus.
But if such a conception could possibly occur to Lori, if it was true, why was she learning of it today, of all days, when she was scheduled to accompany the NATO assault force? She and her companions were heading toward the center of the city and a fateful confrontation with a madwoman. The van turned onto a main thoroughfare, merged into traffic.
Admittedly, there had been physical indications suggesting the possibility of pregnancy. Lori had not menstruated at her regular time this month, and now she had suffered her first bout with morning sickness, which continued to embroil her innards. She should go to a doctor. There might be an explanation other than pregnancy, a medical condition she had never considered. Maybe it was even psychosomatic, and she had only imagined the vision, and what Mary Magdalene told her.
In memory, Lori saw Mary’s eyes shift just a little, and the quiver of her lips. Such a startling contention that Lori didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want any distractions from the important business of this day. With God’s grace, and a considerable amount of luck, all twelve she-apostles would soon be reunited.
I’m at a turning point of history, she thought. Of herstory.
As the van plunged forward into the future, Lori tried to
put the troubling thoughts out of her mind, at least setting them aside for another day. Now, she needed to focus all of her attentions on her mission: the rescue of the last she-apostle.
Chapter 40
Thy holy cities are a wilderness.
—Isaiah 64:10, The Old Testament
At the rear of a force of uniformed NATO soldiers, Lori ran through the tunnel. Bright lights illuminated the way from the helmets they all wore. Staccato boot steps echoed off the ancient rock walls.
Having demonstrated a proficiency with weapons to General Selkirk (and to her own father), Lori carried an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster, and wore black, lightweight body armor that had been issued to her. Zack and Alex, also in body armor but carrying more powerful automatic rifles, ran just ahead of Lori.
When the attack force embarked, and after the earlier reconnaissance mission, a NATO captain had briefed Lori on military imperatives, telling her to follow orders and to stay out of the way. “When we find Martha,” he said, “she will be given to you.”
Lori had nodded her head. Whatever it took to be included.
Upon reaching the Vatican, they would divide into squads, each with a different assignment. Lori’s group had responsibility for Martha of Galilee, while another was assigned to rescue the Pope. Yet another, larger, force would track down Dixie Lou Jackson and her co-conspirators. In the midst of the battle, helicopters would land, disgorging soldiers to protect St. Peter’s Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, and the most priceless antiquities.
Zack and Alex, overcoming tension between them in the beginning, seemed to like one another now. Lori had been noticing similarities in both of them, especially the way they were so dedicated to protecting her. Neither of them seemed to have any fear, despite the tremendous dangers. They were like knights . . . real ones.
Lori had important matters on her mind, huge questions to answer and unknowns to face. She might even have a more mighty protector than the gallant men who ran with her . . . the Lord Almighty. But even the Sovereign of the Universe, the mightiest champion of them all, was known to have a formidable enemy . . . Satan. And in this subterranean region beneath the streets, Lori would remain especially alert; she had no fear for her own personal safety, but needed to survive for the sake of Martha.
The Lost Apostles Page 30
