I was too absorbed in the story to hear his footsteps. I could only close the book as quickly as possible and try to ignore his presence.
‘Jansen, what are you reading?’ he asked softly, so as not to make me defensive.
It did not work. I was always defensive, but respect was necessary and a trait my father valued.
‘Nothing of importance, Father Bediende.’
‘Please do not ever say that about this book, Jansen. It is so far from the truth,’ he said. And then I turned to look at him.
The feeling of vindication was short-lived once the questions rushed into my mind. I had to subdue my instinctual accusing tone before I could ask him what he knew about De Wil.
I had to surrender my resolve to shut him out. I had to lose the battle that only I fought. However, that loss would gain me everything.
‘De Wil,’ Father Bediende breathed as he entered the room. ‘I never thought I would see it in my own language, least of all in the hands of a young man like you. Mysterious ways indeed . . .’
I remained impatiently silent. The only words in my mind would have been disrespectful.
‘God has a plan for all of us,’ Father Bediende began, and before I could roll my eyes he continued. ‘This is that plan, Jansen. You hold it in your hands.’
The shock and confusion must have been clear on my face. Of course I knew that this book was something beyond normal, but I had never dreamed that there was such a grand scheme behind it. The stories I had been reading were the plans of God? How was that possible?
‘God gives everyone a purpose,’ he explained, ‘and some are meant to help and guide the others in order to preserve God’s ultimate plan. Everyone is important and deserves the chance to make their own choices to decide their fates, so God sends them people to speak on His behalf.’ Then he smiled at me the way my mother used to. ‘I am one of those people. De Wil is my guide. I am connected to it. God’s will is on my heart and in my mind so I know what to do. As long as De Wil exists, those who are like me will have the wisdom to help people all over the world. De Wil is our anchor, and you are its keeper.’
His words made the small book feel heavier in my hands. A voice in my head argued against Father Bediende’s claim but I wanted it to be true. I wanted the book to give me a purpose, so I kept my mind open.
‘That book kept me from you these past few months,’ Father Bediende continued, as though complimenting Del Wil’s cleverness, ‘and tonight it called me to you. Turn the page.’
I did and saw what he meant. There, on the page, was my name, and words . . .
‘A time to speak,’ Father Bediende said aloud as I read. ‘Ecclesiastes 3:7. That was all I needed to know that it was time to explain your purpose to you.’
And the lessons began. He told me of how the book connects those people who are meant to preserve God’s plan.
‘Many people confuse us for psychics, but there is much more to our calling than seeing the future. We see what choices need to be made, and we encourage them – never force them. God’s people are not slaves.’
It was overwhelming, but he promised that I would understand in time. This was not what I wanted to hear, and my curiosity began a trend of several years that would see Father Bediende and myself become very close.
I spent years learning my place in the grand scheme of De Wil’s history – more of a legacy, really. It was passed on from one keeper to another, and I was simply the latest in a line that dated back to the day the Lord sent the Holy Ghost.
I remained reasonably sceptical of God for quite a while before finally accepting that the book’s very existence had to be enough proof of His existence. He put it here as a physical link between His plan and the people meant to keep it in line. Without De Wil, the people like Father Bediende would have no foundation and no way of knowing what God’s plan is. And whether I wanted to believe these things or not, I had a job to do, and I took that very seriously.
It wasn’t until the worst happened that I finally surrendered myself to faith.
When I was old enough, Father Bediende and I agreed that it was best for me to move elsewhere. I would not be safe in one place for much longer. Among those meant to help people were those who chose to manipulate them instead. The population of those with the gift to know De Wil could be split by very blurred lines into three factions: those who followed it, those who sought to control it, and those who wanted it destroyed, which would leave the people who could interpret its instructions helpless in their cause. The only person between the world and the book was me. I needed to hide myself, to protect De Wil and ensure that only honest people came into contact with it, and the best way to accomplish that was to surround myself with people. I would become the needle in the proverbial haystack.
In Brussels.
Father Bediende had contacts there, and many other places, thanks to the missions he had received from De Wil. He arranged for me to stay in Brussels and continue my work within a church there. It seemed that Father Bediende intended for me to follow in his footsteps, and I had little time to argue.
The plan to hide in Brussels was only somewhat successful. Among the many tasks that I was given, in order to contribute to the new church and practise discipline, was the gathering of supplies for the services, and also for the members of the church. The elderly needed food, the poor needed clothing, and the church was eager to be the hands and feet of the Lord . . . by making use of my own.
This task held no interest for me outside of the chance to escape the confines of the old and dusty cathedral.
Knowing what I did about the book, I hated the moments when I was not learning more about it and what that had to do with me, so I kept my excursions short.
But on one particular day I found my path cut off by a smug-looking man, not much older than me, but old enough to think me insignificant.
‘So it is you?’ he asked.
I did not answer. He was not pleased.
He gave a shout and two other men emerged behind him.
I may have worked for the church, but I was not the type to turn the other cheek, much to Father Bediende’s frustration. It was clear that these men wanted to control or destroy De Wil, and I would not stand for that. I merely planted my feet and wore a challenge on my face. The book was secure in my pocket. I was a useless orphan. I meant nothing to them. The only thing that made me special was De Wil. They would not lay a finger on it while I was still breathing.
I was such a stubborn child.
The head of the group saw my movement and smiled at me, apparently pleased that it would come down to fighting.
I had seen and lost enough in life to make me a very angry young man, and I carried that anger with me on my path to adulthood. I had used it in Hooge to defend my sister on several occasions and I had no issues with using it to defend myself now.
Without waiting for a cause, the man threw a fist towards my face, but I ducked and targeted his stomach, taking the air from him.
This was not well received by his accomplices and they, too, set upon me, taking turns between beating me and grabbing for the book.
I had the advantage, however. The moment must have taken priority in a larger design because the words of the book filled my mind, alerting me to the best courses of action, and I took them, ducking, punching and swinging various limbs in the appropriate directions.
When it was finished and I staggered back onto a busier street, I found my shoulders caught by a man. I nearly broke his nose until he assured me that the book had called him to guide me back to the church.
I was admonished and not allowed to appear during that Sunday’s service. An altar boy with blackened eyes would not lend itself to the church’s reputation, but I did not care. I welcomed the opportunity to avoid the services, and it was sure to happen again.
In fact, it became the norm whenever I was discovered by the wrong people, those who sought to oppose the instructions of De Wil rather than to facilitate them.
Just imagine knowing of history’s most pivotal moments before they occur. For some, the taste of power is too strong a drug. These were the people whom, due to the lessons I was given in Latin, I dubbed the Iniquus. And those who came to me with the intent of giving people the choice to follow De Wil, or asking my advice because they could sense that I was the book’s keeper, I called the Optio.
I encountered them everywhere, even when I entered the Catholic University of Leuven when I was old enough.
I had developed a deep interest in history and studied it at the university. I could almost trace the path of De Wil through the pages of my textbooks. My enthusiasm impressed the school enough to earn me several recommendations for a position there upon my graduation.
The freedom that came with living away from the church was refreshing, in the lightest of terms. I immersed myself in my studies, because I was studying what I wanted to. I took a particular interest in the Western Schism. Something told me the conflict involved a struggle between the Optio and the Iniquus. If they could not control De Wil, control over the Catholic Church would be a worthy consolation prize. But there was no way to confirm my theory, so I kept it to myself.
I still encountered issues with the Iniquus, but they were vastly outnumbered by the Optio in our Catholic environment. I made friends for the first time in my life, and I learned the value of trusted companions. They helped to keep the Iniquus at bay and taught me more about the connection between De Wil and those with the gift to feel it.
I saw members of the Optio interact with those in need, befriending them, educating them, then taking their leave. I even received a summons from the book on occasion, but my priority was always to keep it safe. I did not know what might happen if I lost De Wil, but my gut told me that it was something I did not want to discover.
And yet I did.
Another war broke out years later when I was older, somewhat wiser, and had earned myself a position at the Catholic University teaching History. I was called to enter the Belgian military for the briefest of times, though I would have preferred to stay at the university. We were not the strongest force in the world and were quickly humbled by the weight of war, but some of us continued to fight.
I was among a large contingent sent to England in 1940. That is where I learned to speak this language.
I met more members of the Optio there, and, inevitably, some of the Iniquus as well.
It was late in the year of 1941 that I learned the consequences of losing the book. In the rush and chaos that is war, I had foolishly decided that the book was safe, buried among the possessions I kept beneath my camp bed. Thirty-six years of life, twenty-three of them in the possession of De Wil, and still a life of limited responsibility had left me spoiled. To be fair, I had a war on my mind, but as the keeper of De Wil, the book should have been my foremost priority.
Even when fighting for the same cause, there are still enemies to be found among friends. The Second World War did not cause the members of the Iniquus and the Optio to forget the purpose they were born with. I should have been even more responsible.
It was something as small as a surprise drill in the middle of the night that left me careless. Soldiers were the type of men I trusted most, thanks to my French predecessor, but I should not have been so naïve.
Hindsight makes everything so clear, and I should have recognised that the drill was a distraction. As the call rang out and we all rushed to our positions, an Iniquus stole into my barracks. It was only too easy for him to take De Wil once he felt it nearby.
I felt it too. As did several Optio members, whose eyes immediately fixed on me. My first instinct was to run back and catch the thief as soon as possible, but abandoning my post would have taken me even further away from my chances. The punishment for such an act was severe, and while I faced the consequences, the book would be falling further and further from my grasp.
I have never felt so impatient in my life, before or since.
The minute we were dismissed I hurried back, looking for anyone headed in the opposite direction. When that was fruitless, I searched for clues around my bed that I knew would not be there.
I flipped the bed.
I gathered the Optio and I apologised and we searched, but it was a frustrating process. The book called to us, but the Iniquus kept it moving.
We knew that something bad was coming. I could feel so many pages of the book rewriting to compensate for the increasing amount of time that it was lost. It was still sending the message of what had to be done to put God’s plan on track, but the Iniquus had the hard copy. They had the pages. They could read everything, which no one was truly meant to do. Omniscience is a curse that God keeps to Himself. Father Bediende had warned me of that years ago, when reading about other people in other places had become my obsession.
As always, he had been absolutely correct.
For every instruction the book gave, the Iniquus could see, and counteract it, even the ones that were meant for others to act on. Members of the Optio and the Iniquus must have felt the repercussions worldwide. As if the world was not in enough peril, things were about to get much worse.
It was difficult to hide our intentions from our commanding officers, but honestly, who would accept our story? A book with God’s plan written inside that speaks to a particular group of people who can act on it?
How easily would you believe?
There was no time to take the chance. Every spare moment was spent searching the bunks of hundreds of men, but I should have known that the Iniquus would not repeat my mistake.
We would have to wait for them to make a mistake of their own, and they inevitably did.
Their mistake was born of selfishness and insensitivity – a common vice among them – which resulted in one of their own betraying them. He found me easily and we wasted no time in reclaiming the book, but not without a fight.
There was a skirmish, which I expected, but what I did not expect was that one of the Iniquus would pull his gun on us once I had wrestled De Wil from him. Fortunately, with the book back in my possession, our heads were clearer, as were our assignments. In an action that must have been directed by the book, one of the Optio tackled the armed man as he fired his gun.
A cry rang out, and it was mine.
I had been shot in the foot, and all the British soldiers complimented me on what they called my Blighty wound. For me, the fighting was over, the book was found; all was well.
However, nothing is so easy, and we were still too late.
No sooner had I breathed a sigh of relief than the news came in of an attack on America that set a new fire to the war. That was early December 1941.
From then on, I learned the value of a buttoned inside pocket and kept the book safely within one at all times.
It was a lesson learned too late, I am afraid. Just because the book was restored to its rightful keeper did not mean that the damage was undone. In fact, the pages became so full in the years that followed that one could not hope to read them all. As soon as the last page was turned, the others would be full again with new assignments. Even I was tasked more than ever in an effort to mend what had been torn.
Now, that is not to say that every cataclysmic event between then and now was due to my poor performance, though there are more than I have the humility to admit, but I learned a valuable lesson from them.
When I was discharged and well enough, I returned to Hooge, because the book called me there. It did not warn me, however, of what I was to find.
My sister had married and had a family, but the old friend and teacher who I was eager to visit could only meet me as a name written in polished stone. No battle had taken him. The murderer, in this case, was simply time.
Yet it was this moment that inspired me.
Kneeling in the rain-soaked earth before a man who had been twice a father to me, I suddenly knew why he placed me where he had, why he taught me so persistently. The book needed to be kept safe, and the
re was only one place where I would be able to live in peace while protecting it. Father Bediende had realised it immediately, and he had tried to prepare me for it.
I began my journey to Rome. By this time I had reached the age of forty, so quickly, but the process in Rome would not be a quick one. De Wil told me that I needed to find a position in the Vatican, which would require effort, since I was not a priest. So I returned to Lueven to continue my work and await an opportunity that I knew God would provide through De Wil’s pages.
All those years later and I still felt as restless as when Father Bediende and I had first started. The only exception was that this time, I knew what was at stake. That made the process all the more gruelling.
Suddenly, I was grateful for those years spent in the church, and the schooling I had received.
Of course, it became obvious that these things were not a coincidence.
In my time at the university, the Iniquus continued to seek me out, and they found me often enough, but I was creative with my methods of hiding De Wil. I buried it, kept it in deposit boxes, even put it within the pages of larger books in my library. So when I found myself in the presence of Iniquus members, the only thing they could hope to gain was information. Well, they certainly were not going to get it.
As I took increasingly drastic measures in hiding the book, the Iniquus made greater efforts to oppose me. In the most drastic case, I found myself cornered on a back street, surrounded by five men.
They spoke to me at first, trying to coax a middle-aged man into joining them. It was all very similar to my childhood, only the roles were reversed. They were young. I was old enough to have been a father to any one of them. They thought me old, crippled and foolish, but I can promise I was not so old in either mind or body. I had just finished military service, and I had a walking cane at my disposal now.
Knives were pulled, but I had tasted war twice and, though I was now a God-fearing man, the boy from Hooge still lingered. I am a guardian, my friend, not a saint. That is a calling left to better people than myself. However, five against one is still not a fair fight. I could only do what I was capable of, and that would never be enough.
Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more Page 42
