Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

“What’s wrong?” Rafael said, coming up behind him.

  Gerry turned, put his fingers to his lips. Rafael nodded. Gerry wondered if Rafael had a weapon, even just a knife. Surely this Chen Jsu would be armed, probably trained in martial arts too. Jerry could knock a man down with a single punch, but some of those chopping, jumping, spinning fighters would slaughter him before he could get that punch in.

  Gerry pointed at his own eyes with two fingers, then double-pointed with just his index down the stairs before he remembered that Rafael would have no idea what those motions meant. Gerry was surprised how easily they came back to him. He was going to have to do this on his own.

  Gerry listened. No one moving. He went to the bottom of the stairs and poked his head around, ducked back, assessing what he’d seen. No one in the corridor. The lantern on the hook, Santiago’s chair empty. All the doors except one were closed, and there was a dim red glow coming from within. Artificial.

  Grabbing Rafael’s shoulder, Gerry whispered into his ear. “I’m going in there, don’t let anyone out.”

  “Santiago’s down there.”

  “No one.” Gerry ducked around again and ran into the corridor.

  ***

  The timer set itself for eight minutes. Christian thought it would be good if they’d let him have a remote. He could have just left it in the corner and got to safe distance, then flicked the switch from there. He guessed they did it this way to keep him more motivated.

  Standing, he stepped back through the cell door, watching the unconscious monk next to the bomb. Christian pulled the door closed.

  Someone grabbed him around the neck. Christian jerked his elbow back into his assailant’s gut. The arm loosened, but didn’t release. Christian twisted and kicked. A punch connected with his cheek and he fell to the ground.

  Christian staggered up, coming against the stone wall.

  “Chen Jsu?” someone said. “Almost convincing. Are you Mongolian?”

  “Yes. My father.” Buy time, he thought. The count was running in his head. Seven minutes forty-five. “My mother was Malay.”

  “Christian?” the voice said.

  “Buddhist. Why are you attacking me?” Christian tried to focus on the attacker in the dim lamp light. His vision was blurred from the blow. The voice seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  “No,” the man said. “Not your supposed religion. Your name.”

  And then Christian remembered where he knew the voice from.

  ***

  Gerry hesitated. The submarine had been a long time ago, but he knew this man, despite the years and the goatee trimmed to a narrow point. “You pulled me out of...” Gerry trailed off as he saw the count on the suitcase.

  “What are you doing here?” Christian said. “I thought you’d be back in the States, selling cars or teaching high school.”

  “Tried that. Is that time to detonation?”

  Christian glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

  “Shut it off.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “We’ve got a problem then.”

  “Enough time to make safe distance.” Christian looked at the entry as Rafael looked around the corner. “All of us.”

  “The whole monastery? Just use your key and shut it down.”

  Christian sighed. “That’s not how they let me work.”

  Gerry scowled at him. “You’re not even a monk, are you? More like a mercenary. How much are they paying you? It’s the Russians, isn’t it?”

  “It’s complicated, but yes, as I understand it. Something about how it will look like the Chinese tried to take out the Catholics, which will mean you people stop lying down in the face of the Chinese expansion and push back, then the Russians can-”

  “I don’t understand any of that. I don’t get how it concerns our beliefs. You bring a weapon like that here?”

  Christian laughed, glanced at the suitcase again. “We have six minutes. And it’s nothing to do with beliefs. You think that anything that happens here, or in Montenegro or Geneva, or anywhere as far as Hangzhou, has anything to do with beliefs? It’s all Mafia and politics. It’s all money.”

  “You-”

  “And before you go trying to contradict me, I know that for the individual monks, everyday monks, that it has everything to do with belief. You do your penance, you-”

  “Rafael,” Gerry called. If Christian wasn’t going to shut it off, then he would have to do something.

  “But higher up the hierarchy,” Christian went on, “it’s about politics and power. You think your Schema is interested in penance and toil? He’s the same as any other: manipulating and striving for prestige and position in Rome.”

  Gerry thought of Menovanni’s simple rooms. He couldn’t imagine the elderly man manoeuvring for power at the Vatican. “This is wrong,” he said. He saw the display flick from 5:00 to 4:59. Rafael came up beside him.

  “We need to go,” Christian said.

  “How far to minimum safe distance?” Gerry asked. He knew that it probably had systems to allow disarming, but probably also systems to prevent disarming. If he tried he might just shorten the count, or release radioactivity.

  Christian shrugged. “It’s pretty low yield. Four miles would do.”

  “Good. Rafael?”

  “Yes, Brother Mitchell?”

  “Christian is coming with us. Would you escort him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey,” Christian yelped as Rafael grabbed him, twisting one arm up behind his back.

  Gerry checked that Santiago was breathing, then closed the suitcase, seeing the flash of 4:22 as the lid came down. “We’ll need to go fast,” he told Rafael. “Follow me.”

  “Okay.”

  Gerry ran again, as quickly as he could lugging the suitcase. He needed a trolley or something. Christian shrieked from behind as Rafael dragged him along too. They ran across the courtyard, attracting looks from pairs of monks walking through the cloisters. Gerry cursed that they’d taken Christian right into the monastery, that it would take so long to reach the entry.

  Off the grass and into the corridor that led back out to the main tourist parking lot. As they came by the meeting room, the delegation were stepping out, blocking the way.

  “Brother Mitchell,” Schema Menovanni called, waving. “Come meet Chian Tzu. I think you’ll-”

  Gerry put his hand on the Schema’s chest. “Not just now.” He kept moving.

  Christian shrieked again. The older monks looked around perplexed.

  Menovanni’s quick hand caught Gerry’s wrist. “Is there a problem, Brother Mitchell?” He didn’t look at Gerry, instead focused on Rafael and his captive.

  “Little bit,” Gerry said. “We need to go.” He wrenched his hand free. “Explain later,” he said.

  Then they were out, looking over the cars parked in the lot. Gerry made for a Peugeot. He smashed the back window with the suitcase and tossed it onto the seat. He reached around unlocking the driver’s door. “Get in,” he yelled at Rafael. Milling tourists had stopped to watch. Gerry glanced back over at the main steps where the delegations stood staring at them too. He pulled the door open and quickly jimmied the ignition. Rafael tossed Christian into the front seat, then climbed in behind and wrapped the seatbelt around the man’s neck, holding him in place.

  “Sorry buddy,” Gerry said as the car started. He didn’t like bringing Rafael, but he needed to get the bomb away and had no way to restrain Christian otherwise.

  “That’s all right,” Rafael said. “Always knew you’d had a more interesting life, before you came here. Kind of hoped you’d get more interesting again sometime.”

  “Wish I could have disappointed you.”

  Rafael laughed.

  Gerry turned the car out of the lot and shoved the accelerator to the floor. “Anyway, Christian,” he said, as he hauled on the wheel. “Maybe now would be a good time to turn off your bomb?”

  Choking a little on the belt, Christian said, �
�Can’t.”

  “Yeah. How long left?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Rafael,” Gerry said, throwing the car hard around the winding mountain road. “Grab his wrist and check his watch.”

  Rafael reached over and lifted Christian’s wrist. “Look at that. He’s got it set to stopwatch.”

  “How long?”

  “About two minutes. Did he synchronize?”

  From the corner of his eye Gerry saw Rafael look at the suitcase. “Yeah.”

  “Why are we going up?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Gerry tried to think how far the road wound up the mountain. He ran here regularly, but on the mountain trails, not on the road, and the road wound much more. Perhaps another mile to the overlook. With the windiness and steep slope he could barely get the car over seventy. It was a long time since he’d driven, and the road was rough, unmaintained. No one really came up beyond the monastery much anyway.

  “One minute forty-five,” Rafael said.

  “Want to turn it off now?” Gerry asked.

  Christian gurgled.

  “Thought not.” Gerry saw the wider part of the road ahead. He pulled in, stopped, and reached over for the suitcase. “Hold him,” he told Rafael.

  “Not letting him go. A minute thirty.”

  Leaving the car running Gerry ran up from the road into the mountain. Passing scrawny bushes and rocky outcrops, he quickly got his bearings and saw the gap. Slowing, he made sure the suitcase was clicked shut, then tossed it into the narrow ravine.

  He sprinted for the car and leapt in. Slamming his foot down on the accelerator he turned the wheel, sliding the vehicle around. The Peugeot gained speed, quickly hitting ninety.

  “Time?” Gerry said. There was no way they would be far enough away. He could only hope that the yield was so low that the hollow in the rock could deflect most of the blast.

  “Ten seconds,” Rafael said.

  Christian gurgled again. He pulled with both hands at the belt.

  “Whatever happens,” Gerry said, “this has got to be absolutely the last time I ever see you.”

  “Five,” Rafael said.

  Christian figured they’d come nearly a mile from where he’d dropped the bomb. A little further and they would be around a bluff.

  “Three.”

  Gerry pushed his foot down harder, even though the pedal was already on the floor.

  “Two.”

  The car fish-tailed. Ahead and down the mountain, Gerry saw the monastery, the stones white and tan, parts glowing in the sunlight. The top of the tower the brightest, almost like a beacon. An eagle turned in the sun, its eyes glinting.

  The clouds and hills flashed even brighter for a moment.

  Then the road shook. With a whump the air shuddered, shunting the car a little. Gerry slowed. The light faded away.

  “Still alive,” Rafael said. He let go of the belt and Christian gasped.

  “Looks that way,” Gerry said. In the rear-view he could see the dirty cloud sidling out from the mountain.

  “They’ll try again,” Christian said, voice raspy. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Gerry glanced at Rafael. “Guess I’d better stick around then.”

  About the author: Sean Monaghan’s one visit to a monastery in the Pyrenees involved mostly photography, though events similar to the story may have taken place. Sean’s stories have appeared online and in print in Static Movement, Other Voices and Takahe, amongst others. More information at his website venusvulture.com.

  The Last Monk

  George Ivanoff

  Originally published in Aurealis #30, 2002

  The monk stared at the skulls, stacked from floor to ceiling in neat rows. The wan light of day’s end filtered through the barred, glassless window, catching them in that dim moment between clarity and darkness. The skulls’ shadowed, empty eye-sockets pierced the monk with their vacant gaze.

  “I wish you could talk to me,” he whispered under his breath, “and share with me your wisdom.”

  But, of course, the dead kept their own counsel.

  Sometimes, as the wind blew through the Charnel House, the old bones would resonate with its passing. At times like these, it was almost as if the dead monks were whispering to him—whispering their forgiveness.

  There was no wind today.

  The monk’s gaze came to rest on one particular skull. It had been there for almost two millennia—the first skull to be rested in the Charnel House.

  “I have taken the name of this monastery’s founder,” he said with reverence, “as a sign of respect.” He paused to consider. “Also, it seems right that it should end as it began. In the beginning, now and forever... Amen.” He sighed. “I am now, as he once was, Justinian.”

  Brother Justinian crossed himself and got to his feet. Leaving the Charnel House, he made his way to the Chapel for his evening prayers. Then, after a meager meal of boiled vegetables and rice, he retired to his cell.

  At three in the morning he awoke to silence. The alarm clock that he no longer needed, its dead face staring blankly, sat collecting dust in a corner. His body and mind were now so perfectly attuned to the routine.

  He dressed and began the long climb.

  It grew lighter as he neared the summit. He knelt down to pick up a weathered soft-drink bottle. It had been so many years since anyone other than him had climbed these steps, yet their refuse endured. He rolled the bottle in his hands.

  A whole race of people, he thought, outlived by their garbage.

  He tucked the bottle into his robes and continued the climb.

  At the summit of Mount Sinai, Brother Justinian entered the little chapel. He lit two candles, their glow illuminating the faces of long-dead saints, staring down at him from the windowless walls. While the sun rose outside, he fell to his knees. As always, he prayed for forgiveness.

  As he stepped out into the sunlight, he mused that it had been years now since he had actually seen a sunrise. He missed the colors and the slow break of light. He sighed and started the descent back to the monastery.

  Back at the monastery he stopped at the bush, as he did every morning upon his return, and silently prayed for the flames of wisdom and forgiveness. There was not even a breeze to give movement to its leaves, silent since the days of Moses. Brother Justinian closed his eyes momentarily, the weariness of obligation weighing heavily on him, and imagined how the bush might appear if it were to ignite for him. Then, rubbing a hand over his eyes, he trudged off to do his daily chores—tending to the needs of the ancient buildings and their lifeless contents.

  Soon it was time again for his evening visit to the Charnel House and the monks who had come before him. Such was Brother Justinian’s routine—day in, day out, for the last one hundred and seventeen years since the last of the monks died.

  But today was different. Today, as the last monk sat in the Charnel House and spoke to the old bones, the first monk spoke back.

  A gust of wind whispered through the bones.

  “Confess!”

  Within seconds Brother Justinian was on his knees.

  “Forgive me! Forgive me!” he cried. “Forgive my people. We had no idea.” Brother Justinian wept. “Thou shalt not kill,” he sobbed. “Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill. Thou...” He choked back the tears. “But we did. Forgive us! We did not mean to.”

  But there was no more wind.

  Brother Justinian prayed well into the night, then went straight to bed. Fasting was good for the soul. Penance. As he tossed and turned, images burned through the starscape of his dreams. Images of a lost race searching for a new home. Of huge vessels greeted with panic and suspicion upon their descent from the heavens. Of a slow learning of trust. And of eventual, unknowing betrayal. Of disease. And of slow, ghastly death.

  Brother Justinian awoke at three in the morning... screaming.

  Clouds gathered as he proceeded through his routine in a daze, his body going through the motions
as his mind did its best not to think about anything.

  That evening a storm thundered down as he went to the Charnel House to pray. The skulls wept as he did, gusts of wind blowing the rain through the window.

  Brother Justinian did not go to his cell that night. Afraid to sleep, he stayed in the Charnel House and prayed all night. The storm eventually passed and the monastery was returned to still silence. And he continued to pray. Not for himself or his people, but for the billions of dead. The unsuspecting humans who had given his wandering race a home.

  A sudden gust of wind disturbed the stillness.

  “Forgive!”

  Brother Justinian looked up into the eyes of the first monk’s skull—sockets, which no longer seemed vacant, gazed back with benevolence. The air stilled.

  “Peace!”

  “Thank you,” whispered Brother Justinian. “Thank you.” Tears welled in his eyes again. “Thank you.” Slowly getting to his feet, he opened the door to be greeted by light. He had prayed all through the night and now the sun was just rising above the bush.

  He watched in awe, entranced by its beauty, as the brilliant orb rose into the sky. His eyes watered with the brightness. Through the tears he noticed a small plume of smoke. He hastened to wipe them from his eyes. Within moments the light of the sun was dulled by a source far more dazzling. Brother Justinian smiled... his first smile in over a hundred years.

  At last at peace, he went to the holy bush and embraced the flame.

  About the author: George Ivanoff is an author and stay-at-home Dad residing in Melbourne, Australia. He has written over 50 books for children and teenagers. His teen science fiction novel, Gamers’ Quest, won a 2010 Chronos Award for speculative fiction. Although Gamers’ Quest is not Monk Punk, the teenage heroes do briefly encounter a group of warrior monks who protect the Temple of Paths and the Oracle that resides within. George has also had stories published in numerous magazines and anthologies, most recently in Short and Scary and Belong. Check out George’s website at: georgeivanoff.com.au.