"You still do not know what I am?"
He was correct. I did not. What could he have been, other than a child who seemed to have no blood in his body—pale as marble—and yet could bleed and drink his own blood happily?
Then the most disturbing thing of all occurred; and as it did, I stood up from St. Peter's chair, ready to rush from the Apse.
As I watched—and as he held his arm out to me so that I might do so—the wounds on his arm began to heal. They tightened, puckered, and slowly began to fill with fresh, smooth skin, until soon there were no wounds at all.
For a moment I thought of His Son again. Perhaps (I told myself, wanting to believe it) I was witnessing the kind of healing spoken of in the Holy Book; that I had been right—this was His Son come again, disturbed perhaps, doubting God, but had he not been in this same state, for a moment anyway, on the Cross of Golgotha?
But then the child said:
"It is not what you think, Your Holiness."
It was, yes, as if he had heard my unspoken thoughts; and was this not proof, too, that he might be the Son come again?
"All of us—the Drinkers of Blood—can hear the thoughts of mortals, like voices in our skulls, if we wish to,” he said, performing the miracle again.
"But that does not mean,” he continued, the bitterness there again, “that we are holy."
"I—I do not understand."
"We heal so that our damnation is ensured,” he answered.
"But if you heal, you are immortal in flesh as well as soul."
"That is our damnation, Your Holiness."
"How can this be?"
He paused and the pause was like damnation itself.
"Because,” he said at last, “we do not exist in God's grace."
"Everyone exists in God's grace—simply by being God's child."
"Not those cursed by the bite of the Oldest Drinker and his children, grandchildren and great-great-great grandchildren. The Oldest Drinker is the son of the Fallen One, born to graceless starvation, misery, and eternal damnation."
I remembered something from my eighth year of life: Adults speaking in a corridor, their voices low. My uncle and two others. Phrases like “those of the Dark Communion” and “a thirst that never ends.” When one is eight years old, the words of adults belong to adults, for adults to understand, and I had thought nothing about them. And as I remembered the event, I remembered the fear in the whispers—and the mutterings of prayers that had followed. Later, when the Drinkers began to take the Holy City, I would learn what these phrases truly meant; but at that moment, faced with a beggar child who could heal from his own bite, I remembered only the whispers and the fear of that corridor.
"I am not old enough,” I said at last, “to know of what you speak, my child."
"Nor was I,” the figure rushed to answer, his voice made brave by what was clearly anger and despair, “until I was bitten three years ago and my body told me, as it changed, what I now know. As I met others like me, damned as well, I learned the words to describe it. The Curse. The story of the Oldest Drinker, who has lived for fifteen hundred and seventy-six years when perhaps he should have died in another man's place, on a cross, on a hill that day. Had I not learned these things from others like me, but older, I would not, at ten years of age, stand before you able to speak of anything other than my own misery."
"I still do not understand. But you are here because you wish something of me. This I understand."
"I do wish something of you, Your Holiness, and yet I do not know whether you understand enough of the world to grant it."
"We do not need to understand everything to do what should be done."
The child laughed again, and, though perhaps a little less bitterly, with the same despair.
"Those are the words of a man, not a boy,” he said. “Where did you learn them?"
I saw no harm in answering, and, in fact, felt that only honesty would take us both where we needed to go this night. “From my uncle, the Cardinal Voccasini, and from the holy texts I studied under his guidance long before I was elected Pope."
Tears had appeared suddenly in the child's eyes, and I did not know why. He had been bitter and hopeless before, and angry before that, but the tears told of something else.
"I am not accustomed to the caring your honesty implies,” the child said, sounding like a man even older than my uncle. When you were cursed in his way, did you become old before your time?
But the question that possessed me more than any other was this: Why would God curse a child when His Son had so loved children?
"I do not believe,” I began, “that God has damned you or those like you."
"You do not know,” he answered.
"I believe that you have damned yourselves by choosing to believe that God has forsaken you."
Where these words issued from, I do not know. They were almost heretical, and certainly not my uncle's. They were not from any holy text I could remember, and yet they felt very much like the word of God. I sometimes think that they were the first words I truly spoke as Pope; and by that I mean that they were the first real words of the Holy Spirit speaking through me; and that, had the beggar child who drank blood for reasons I did not understand not appeared before me that day, I would never have truly become Pope.
More tears had appeared, and the child was now embarrassed by them.
"How could God,” he asked, “not have forsaken us if we are so miserable? Is it not God's wish that we suffer for our sins, though our sin is only that we are the children of the Oldest Drinker?"
"You are damned only by your bodies, just as I am,” I heard myself say, a voice somewhere telling me to say it, “and bodies mean nothing, for they are a lie. They tell us that we are not eternal, when we are. They tell us that God must want us to suffer, when of course He does not. We suffer simply because we are here in this world and in bodies for but the briefest moment, after which we will return to Him."
Again, whose words these were, heretical as they sounded, and yet true, I did not know.
"We will certainly not return to Him,” the child said.
"You will."
"But we are damned."
I sighed. What more could I say?
Fighting tears, he said, “Do you wish to hear my request or not?"
"Yes."
"It is this: Will you give me communion? And confession?"
My breath stopped. To grant communion and confession to one about whom my uncle and the other cardinals had whispered in fear should have been unthinkable; but as I looked into my heart I saw that it was not my love of God that made it “unthinkable,” but a fear of what might be “Godless.” And as my uncle had taught me, there is nothing that is Godless. And fear, as my uncle also taught me, should never be the reason for a Pope's action. A love of God should be; and if the words I had just spoken to the child—my first real words as Pope—had indeed come to me through the Holy Spirit, I should listen to them and not to fear.
"Why do you wish this, my child?"
"Because...,” he began, but seemed unwilling to finish.
"You must tell me, if I am to decide whether to grant your request or not."
"Because I want to know."
"To know what?"
"Whether I am damned."
"My words of assurance to you as your Pope are not enough?"
"I wish that they were, but how can they be?"
It was true. How could they be, when I was but a child, too, and they were conversation, not sacrament.
"Did you also think,” I asked, “that because I am a boy, too, you might persuade me more easily?"
"Yes."
"That I would be weak and so persuading me might be easier?"
"No. Only that because you are a child, too, you might understand and have more compassion than any priest, bishop, or cardinal."
He was speaking the truth, and I was moved.
When I rang the bell to call D'Orgoglio, it was not without doub
t. What if what I was about to do was wrong in a manner I could not foresee? What if the child were playing me like a musical instrument for his own purposes, or, worse, the purposes of a greater darkness, the Oldest Drinker's? What if my performing the Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation, with Communion, provided strength to Darkness?
What if, even if the consequences of my actions were not so grand, I nevertheless compromised the Voccasini family position by doing this? A Pope must remain sensitive to politics, too, that faith not die from the onslaught of worldly matters.
Once doubt fills us, it finds reasons everywhere for itself; and my doubt soon found more than I had ever imagined possible, and with the speed of hunting dogs.
When D'Orgoglio appeared, his face was full of alarm, and two guards were with him.
"I am still alive, Pier,” I said, with a little laugh to calm him. “I wish to perform the Reconciliation for this child. Please bring me the Body and the Blood and leave us when you have. Thank you, and thanks to you two as well, who guard the Papacy so well."
Their astonished looks held them where they stood, but D'Orgoglio moved at last, turning and leaving. Because the two guards remained, the boy and I waited in silence. When D'Orgoglio returned, he placed the goblet of wine and the bread plate on the table by my chair, and then, at an insistent nod from me, departed with the guards, closing the door behind them.
"Step closer, please, my child."
Was he afraid? Was that why he did not take a step? Or was it something else?
"Do you wish to confess?"
"What might I confess,” he answered, “that I would not repeat by my actions every day hence?"
"It is no different for all of us,” I heard myself say. “And yet we all confess."
It was difficult—nearly impossible, in fact—for him to say what he said next, I know now; but he found the courage or will or desperation to say it; and I was again moved, and for a moment could not see through blinking eyes.
"Bless me—” he began, stopped, closed his eyes, and, eyes closed, began again:
"Bless me, Father, for I....” Again he stopped, and I could see him struggle with himself as if with a demon. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
"And what is the nature of—” I began, also stopping, for the words that should have come to me would not come either. I heard only the voice that had spoken before with words that were neither mine nor my uncle's. “And what is the nature,” I heard myself say then, “of what you believe has lost you God's love?"
His eyes opened in surprise. These were not the words he had expected.
"I—I have taken into darkness too many souls to count, Father."
"Whether they are in darkness now,” I heard myself continue, “is not for you to judge, but for God, for whom there can be no Darkness, for He and all that He has made lives in Light beyond Darkness."
"But I have sinned."
"That is not for you to determine, my child,” I went on, “but for God, who does not need to forgive what needs no forgiveness."
The boy, squatter of body than the boys I had grown up with—as squat as a Southerner, and just as long-armed, with eyes graced by the lashes of a girl—looked at me in confusion. How could a boy, even if he were a Pope, change the very words that every priest spoke and had spoken forever in this sacrament? Every sacrament was holy and beyond even a Pope's revision.
I was as confused as the boy was, and now frightened. What was this voice that spoke through me, changing what should not be changed, even if its words felt like Truth? Was I an instrument of the Lord of Lies now? Had I become it simply by accepting the boy's presence, a Drinker's?
And yet below the fear was a strange peace, one that let me say:
"So that you will know the peace in your heart that you deserve as God's child, I, your Pope, ask only that you say, when you have left this place tonight, and as you lie down to sleep, no matter how restless your sleep may be, a hundred Our Fathers. Utter them in joy and sincerity, as if your fear that God has abandoned you were but a terrible dream from which you have now awakened."
Not knowing what else to do, the boy nodded, but I could see the doubt in his eyes: Forgiveness and salvation could not be so simple.
And then the voice was gone, and I was free to begin, if I so wished, the Sacraments of Reconciliation and Communion, which the boy had requested and which, I remembered, might be combined in a single rite if a Pope saw wisdom in it. My uncle had never performed such a ritual, and yet such a ritual was what I would perform. I would even, because of what the boy had become, give him Blood before Body. Heresy or not, this is what I would do because it was right; because a voice somewhere insisted that it was.
I stood, picked up the goblet of wine from the table beside me, and held it out to the boy's lips. But when I said, “Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus,” a blue light appeared on the goblet's lip, and I stopped until it had faded. I had never seen such a light. Was it my fever, a trick of the eye in the candlelight, fatigue? I did not want to believe that it was real, for that would have meant something more frightening.
Blinking, I thrust the goblet out again toward the boy's lips; but when I said “Et dimissis peccatis tuis,” the blue light not only appeared once more but danced frantically on the rim of the goblet. I returned the goblet to the table, where the fire faded again, tore a piece of bread from the loaf, and tried once more. I handed him the bread first, so that he might partake of Body before Blood, that it might discourage the flame.
As if afraid it might bite him, the boy merely nibbled on the piece—
And then it did indeed bite him: The blue flame leaped from the bread, and the boy jerked back, as if burnt.
"It is as I feared!” he cried.
Doubt was taking me as well. What could I do against blue fire? And yet there was something odd about the flame. It did not feel like God's anger. It did not feel like damnation. What was it then?
"Let us continue, my child,” I said, not knowing what else to do.
"No!"
"We must.” Quickly I said, “Perducat te ad vitam aeternam,” and held the goblet to his lips once more.
The boy did not want to obey, but he touched his lips to the goblet's rim at last and even took a sip.
Again the blue flame stirred on the goblet, rearing up to leap from the metal to his mouth; and this time I reached out to put my hand in its way.
The flame did not burn me, but instead danced around my hand like a snake until it broke free and leaped to the boy's mouth again.
Again, the boy jerked back as if burnt.
"I cannot do this!” he cried, and the door started to open behind me.
"Do not come in!” I shouted. “We are doing what must be done for this child, Ser D'Orgoglio. We are not to be interrupted."
"But Your Holiness,” the man's voice said, as if he'd seen the blue light himself—which perhaps he had though a cracked door—"if this is demonic possession, you are perhaps too inexperienced to attempt—"
"It is not a possession, D'Orgoglio,” I said, wondering why I felt so certain, “and I am not accustomed to being interrupted by my attendants in the middle of a sacrament."
It was unkind of me to speak like that—especially to a man like D'Orgoglio—but rudeness was the only way I knew to make him leave. The boy would certainly not continue the rite in the presence of the man, and the manner in which this strange mixture of communion and reconciliation was proceeding would certainly excite D'Orgoglio too much for him to allow its completion.
"Yes, Your Holiness,” D'Orgoglio's voice said, and the door closed once more.
"What is your name, my child?” I asked, turning back to him.
"Taddeo—Taddeo da Casta."
"We must continue, Taddeo."
"I cannot."
"You say this and yet you are here. You wish this. Why do you claim you cannot continue?"
"Because I am damned,” he answered.
"As you have said before.” I
was growing impatient.
As he said it again—because I am damned—the blue flame danced higher, not only from the goblet, but from the plate of bread as well, as if fueled by the very words he was repeating. And a voice I knew well by now whispered: Yes, that is the reason.
"It must burn me because I am damned,” the boy was saying yet again, and yet again I was answering, “You are not damned."
"But you can see the flame of God's anger?"
"It is your flame, filius Dei. It is yours, for you to use as you wish.” This I now knew, and it was certain.
"No!"
The boy shook his head violently. The two places on his lips where the fire had indeed burnt them were healing, of course.
"And in your self-loathing you use it this way—as no loving God ever would."
"No!"
He was stepping back, and, as he did so, the blue light reached out for him from the goblet and loaf. The flame was larger now, as tall as a child, hot and blue, and a figure was taking shape within it.
"See!” he exclaimed. “That is no loving God!"
"I see a boy in the flame, Taddeo. I see you."
It was indeed the figure of a boy, his face shapeless but somehow familiar.
The boy screamed, unable to look, and, turning, began to run. He ran toward the distant shadows of the Basilica's Nave, and when those shadows took him, I listened to his footsteps until they too faded.
The flame had hesitated for a moment on the goblet and bread, but then had followed him, becoming a wisp and a whisper and then nothing at all.
* * * *
Two weeks later, after my uncle had returned and reprimanded me for allowing a beggar child to visit me in the middle of the night (and without proper security during the visit), I heard a story from one of my tutors. I had not told a soul what had actually happened that night. It would be a secret I would keep for years. The tutor in question was one responsible for keeping me aware of news in the city; and the story he told me was of a child who had been killed at the Travinia Gate of the Vatican, and under strange circumstances. The child, my tutor explained, had run menacingly toward the guards brandishing a torch, one with a mysterious blue fire; and, though the guards, their bows raised and arrows nocked as was proper, had shouted warnings at him, the child had continued toward them, shouting demonically and screaming heretical oaths, all of which the guards found frightening. What ensued, then, is understandable, is it not, Your Holiness? Release their arrows the guards did, in their fear of the blue flame and the demonic noise; but strangely, the first five arrows, though they struck the child, did not stop his forward rush.
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