*
As the newspaper accounts at the time made much of, I was confined to my bed for the worst part of two months after this grotesque and disturbing encounter. When I finally addressed the crowds from my balcony in early June I must have still had a light fever, for towards the end of my speech I began to hallucinate. I thought I saw little goblins, wicked little cherubs, like the one who had visited me and interrogated me so insolently, clambering along the roof of the curving pavilions of Bernini’s glorious embracing colonnati. I began to gibber and panic as if talking in tongues, as the first of them started scaling the façade and reaching three-fingered hands up towards my balcony. Suddenly I saw all those carved Gothic gremlins of medieval Europe in a different light . . . perhaps I was not the first pontiff, nor indeed the first holy man, to have been tormented by these creatures. I thought of paintings like Matthias Grünewald’s Temptation of St Anthony. Perhaps such goblins have been visiting us all across history.
I hope my refusal to countenance the foisting of a new messiah on this world was taken seriously by the odious Mr Kato and whatever shady interests he represented. Perhaps he was a member of a right-wing American think tank or a reformed Soviet spy. I have no idea and have always endeavoured to stay out of politics. I only wish that politicians would show similar restraint in spiritual matters.
I should step down soon. My health is failing and I seldom leave the confines of my apartments and have a steadily reducing desire to do so, for fear of glimpsing grotesque little homunculi out of the corner of my eye, cavorting and gambolling around, despoiling the Vatican finery, making sport of me. In the late evening when I lie back on my day bed in the Grand Salon, after being administered some tincture of camphor and laudanum by Monsignor Giuseppe, I sometimes see the objects that Kato touched, painted vases and carved tables, beginning to levitate into the air and float around the room surrounded by an eerie blue light, like so much driftwood in the midst of a deranged storm. I cry out in the small hours, terrified and oppressed by this spectacle, even the furniture rebelling against me. But by Christ’s grace morning still comes, and with it the pink and peachy glow of His benign hand spreading its grace across the earth like a benediction. Then the furniture and all the other stage props of this uncertain world are returned to their rightful places again and are no longer in rebellion against me. These days the tweeting birds in spring remind me of that creature’s voice. God forgive me, even the sight of children recalls to me his frightful stature. Make peace, I pray you all, with your maker and your fellows, for I have met the Devil and his cohorts, and doubtless they will be coming back.
Ω
No corroborating evidence exists that any secret envoys from the American intelligence agencies visited Pope Pius XII during the period he describes, or indeed that such an envoy brought news with him of anything so sensational and unlikely as the being he describes. Was he actually visited by an alien? Or could this have been an early visitation of dementia, including vivid hallucinations, which afflicted him in later years?
Pius XII did consider resigning (or, technically, abdicating) because of his ill health. He was seriously ill in 1954, and eventually died of a heart attack in 1958, aged 82.
1959
So far as the Church is concerned, purported miracles need to be investigated – but the person at the centre of the miracle, and those around him or her, may not want to be investigated, to be questioned, challenged, probed and poked and prodded by a doubting stranger.
The investigator must assess whether any healings are just coincidence, or perhaps some form of auto-suggestion – in more old-fashioned terms, mind over matter. His job is to be thorough in his questioning. But what if the person with the supposed healing power is a twelve-year-old girl, who has also seen visions of an unknown saint?
This report is by the official investigator of such a case, in a small Welsh village at the end of the 1950s.
The Saint’s Well
Storm Constantine
On Lammas eve I walked the path to The Bwythn. The day had been hot; the land still baked and shimmered beneath the lowering sun. My path was narrow and steep, and it was easier to walk than ride my hired bicycle. The Welsh mountains swept away in all directions, dotted with sheep nearby, melting into the sky in the distance. I had in my pocket the letter from Father Contadino in Rome, validating my authority to investigate this case. Before I visited the local Catholic church, before anyone had wind of my arrival, I wanted to see the cottage, the pool behind it, the girl herself.
*
The world is full of miracles, or what appear to be, but holy miracles are things apart. They must have the full light of the Church directed upon them. They must be tied down and explored in depth, because a true miracle is the work of God and must therefore be catalogued. Sometimes action should be taken. But the world’s fullness of miracles is more often fake – or the consequence of delusion – than genuine. I am sent to find out the truth in such cases.
All I knew of Mai Davies was that she lived in an isolated cottage near the small village of Llanelyn, was twelve years old and had visions, which she claimed to be of a saint. Twice she had apparently effected cures of the afflicted, but the power of the mind is great indeed, and that is a gift from God. He allows people to heal themselves occasionally, but in some cases their faith falters because they are afraid, and they need a hint of theatre to help believe in it. Theatre like Mai Davies.
At the start of an investigation I never know whether what I’ll find will be astounding, disturbing or merely disappointing. I have been astounded once.
*
The Bwythn stood at the top of a hill before a small copse, wherein – so I had read in my brief – lay a deep, narrow pool named Tardell Galar. I understood this meant something like the sorrow well. Here, one summer morning nearly a year before, Mai Davies had been overcome by feelings of ecstatic bliss rather than sorrow. A female figure had appeared to her dressed in blue and white robes and with ‘a kind face’, as she described it.
The cottage was square and straight, with two windows downstairs, two windows upstairs and smoke curling from a chimney. The front door was blue, with two worn steps before it. A ginger cat sat there, washing its face. Music came from the cottage window on the right that sounded like a radio. I heard a female voice singing along, rather tunelessly, to some pop song.
I leaned my bicycle against the wall, alarming the cat so that it scampered off. The front door to the cottage was open, the hall beyond in semi-gloom, although as I stood on the step I could see a grandfather clock beside the stairs and a mirror at the end of the short hallway, strangely bright, that showed me my reflection. I looked odd, as if I were stooping to enter a dangerous place, frozen in time, my hand to my hat, one trousered leg poised above the hall tiles.
‘Hello!’ a voice called, holding a note of query.
A young woman had emerged from the right-hand room, which I could see now was a kitchen. She wore a full, calf-length skirt decorated with red, orange and yellow flowers, and a pale yellow jumper and cardigan. She was drying her hands on a brightly coloured tea towel that depicted scenes of the mountains. She was pretty, and appeared to know it.
‘Good day to you, miss,’ I began. ‘My name is Bartholomew Coombe and I’ve been sent by the Holy Office in Rome about your . . .’ (my mind scanned the facts for a moment) ‘. . . I believe your sister, Miss Mai Davies.’
‘Oh,’ said the girl. ‘Mai.’ She frowned, taking in my apparel: dark suit, hat, my overcoat over my arm. ‘You’re not a priest?’
‘No, I’m not a priest. My job is to investigate cases of this nature.’ I held out my letter to her. She scanned it briefly.
‘I see. You’ll want to speak to her, then?’
‘That would be helpful.’
Another frown, a quick whip of words. ‘She’s not done anything wrong.’
‘I’m not here to judge individuals, only facts.’ I attempted a smile, which given what the mirror refle
ction showed me probably didn’t reassure her very much.
‘I’m Evelyn,’ the girl said, extending a hand. Her nails were well manicured. I took her fingers, deliberately not strongly, and returned the gesture. Her own grip was firm and swift.
‘Well, if you’d wait in the parlour, I’ll give Mai a call.’ Evelyn gestured at the room on the other side of the hall.
*
The parlour gave an overall impression of pale blue and lavender, yet dimly, the windows being too small to make it an airy room. There was another large mirror over the mantelpiece, and several religious pictures upon the wall, somewhat faded: a sorrowful head of Jesus, the Virgin with her child. On the heavy sideboard at the back of the room, a plastic crucifixion statuette leaned rather precariously towards a tarnished silver cruet set.
I heard Evelyn shout, ‘Mai? Mai, come in, there’s a bloke from the Pope here to see you.’
Mai must have dragged her feet or paused before complying, because it took a further two minutes for her to enter the parlour. My first impressions were ‘dour’ and ‘sour’. She did not strike me as the type of person prone to religious rapture. Her face was long and plain of feature, her hair lank and of a nondescript brown. Evelyn bounced in behind her sister, a picture of liveliness, colour and beauty. They were like the Classical theatre masks of tragedy and comedy, so marked were their differences.
I introduced myself and asked if we might sit. I gave Evelyn a long stare so that she would realise I wished her to leave, without me having to ask her to depart a room in her own home. ‘I’ll make you some tea,’ she said and flitted out, closing the door behind her.
‘Miss Davies, you’ll know why I’m here, of course. Did your priest mention it?’
Mai had perched herself on the edge of an armchair and was now picking at the lace arm covering. ‘Yes. Father Brynn said the Holy Father would want to know about me, that he would send someone.’
I then gave her the usual talk about the Holy Office and how it investigated all religious experiences that came to the ears of its officers. I explained that I was based in England but given work of this nature to carry out in the Holy Father’s name. I assured the girl I was not there to question her integrity, merely to hear her account and, if possible, be shown any of what she had experienced or continued to experience. I would also want to speak to any other people who might be involved. Mai answered my questions without elaboration or any visible sign of concern or enthusiasm.
‘So, tell me in your own words what happened the first time you had a vision,’ I said.
Mai shrugged. ‘It just came over me at the pool. I felt . . . very happy, really happy, then the light on the water became a . . . person. She is Saint Galar and God asked her to visit me.’
‘Did she tell you this name?’
Mai nodded. ‘She said that was her name. She looks like the Holy Mother, all in blue and white. She’s pretty with long hair and she smiles.’
‘You don’t think she could be the Holy Mother?’
‘No, I know it isn’t. She would have told me if that was who she was. Why would she lie?’
‘How often do you see her?’
Again a shrug. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes.’
‘Once a week? Once a month?’
‘Maybe once every few weeks. Yes, once a month.’ Mai watched me writing my notes.
‘And what happens during these visits?’
‘Nothing much. I lie by the water and listen to her, but it’s not words so much as songs or sounds like birds. I’m so filled with happiness I can barely move. There’s light all around me, within everything. It’s not ordinary light, but God’s.’
‘How long do these episodes last?’
Mai’s face had taken on some of the light she had reported, transforming her from sour to sweet, then it faded a little as my question brought her back to earth. ‘It can’t be for that long. I have to do my jobs in the house. I have to go to school.’
‘So, what, maybe an hour?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Do these visits leave any physical marks?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, marks upon your body, in places perhaps where Jesus was nailed to the cross or wounded in the side.’
‘No, no. She wouldn’t do that.’
I smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I have to ask these questions.’
Mai shook her head, looked down at her hands. I could tell she thought what I’d asked was crude. ‘It’s all right.’
‘Do you have any physical contact with Saint Galar?’
‘No, she stays where she is, although . . .’ Mai looked up, ‘it feels like she touches me with her eyes, a touch that can take pain away.’
‘Do you have any pain?’
‘I had a tummy ache once. She made it go.’
‘And not just your hurts, I believe. You’ve been reported as healing people. Can you talk to me about that?’
‘First, it was Huw Evans’s hand. He’d broken it, mauled it up in a machine at work, and even though it was mended it pained him all the time. The Lady told me to touch it and then it was better. And the Morgans’ little girl. She was very sick with the fever.’
‘You healed these people by touching them?’
‘Yes. Sort of. I can’t really describe it.’ She wrinkled up her long nose. ‘It’s sounds again, like birds, or wind rustling in the bushes. And there’s a smell too. But it’s not like anything I’ve smelled before so I can’t tell you what it is.’
‘Can you show me this . . . ability?’
‘Have you anything wrong with you?’ she asked, rather archly and in a tone beyond her twelve years.
‘Fortunately not,’ I said. ‘So you can’t make anything happen unless I’m ill?’
‘It’s for healing,’ Mai replied, as if I were stupid.
Evelyn came into the room carrying a tray, and some minutes were devoted to the consumption of tea and biscuits.
Evelyn threw questions at me. ‘You live in England? You don’t work for the Church all the time? How far have you travelled? Have you ever met an evil ghost?’
I answered carefully, not wanting to make my job sound too exciting, like that of an adventurer or explorer, although in fact I do love facing the mysteries and in most cases solving them.
‘You’re a religious detective,’ Evelyn decided, and I agreed this was a pertinent term to describe my work.
‘Have you ever investigated a murder?’ she asked, her eyes alight.
‘Not yet,’ I replied.
From our conversation, I ascertained that Mai was, of course, still in school and Evelyn was an office junior at the college in the nearest town, there also learning secretarial skills. Their mother, Bronwen, worked as an assistant at the post office in Llanelyn. The father was dead. This being the summer, both girls were on holiday. Evelyn – at sixteen considered old enough to look after her younger sister while their mother was at work – enjoyed the long summer holidays of the educational establishment. I got the impression this was some arrangement that had been made to accommodate her child-minding at home, since the college was mainly her place of work rather than of learning. I was told that Mai liked to go to church every day. Usually, Evelyn went with her, as companion rather than through any religious urges of her own.
What I’d heard so far seemed pretty standard fare to me and was not that uncommon. Many a person – and not always young girls, who are particularly prone to it – claim to encounter holy beings that are arrayed in light and bring with them a feeling of joy and love. Although most of the visions do communicate, often this is not aloud but rather heard within the claimant’s head. A proportion of these cases are down to mental illness or some aspect of puberty. Those who are extremely devout and spend much time in meditation and prayer are also more likely to experience visions than others. I believe this is a natural result of an inordinately pious life, where the greater part of a person’s time is given over to religious contemplation. I
do not regard this as mental illness, but rather a kind of euphoria, an externalising of their intense spiritual feelings. The majority of claimants I have studied believe their visions to be of the Virgin Mary. Male figures – that of Jesus Christ himself or saints – are not as common now as in earlier times, when the Church was being established. But visions are still occurring and can have a problematic effect upon families and communities. The Church cannot ignore them. My job is to ascertain which of these experiences are real. I was chosen for this task perhaps because I am a sceptic. I don’t believe any of them are real, but I am good at investigating, enjoy the work, and am able to appear empathetic to the claimants. In their view, after all, what they’ve experienced is absolutely real. Very few deliberately fabricate these things.
*
After our refreshments, I asked Mai to show me the place where she’d seen the ‘saint’. I hadn’t yet revealed to the girl that there was no ‘Saint Galar’ in any hagiographical list to my knowledge, and after all the years I’d been employed by the Holy Office, I knew the name of just about every canonised individual in history.
A garden containing a chicken run led to a copse beyond a sagging wood and wire fence: beeches and oaks mainly, although I noticed some smaller growths of holly and hawthorn. There was a worn track through the undergrowth, with a tiny stream beside it, and a faint smell in the air of decay or perhaps excrement. The stream looked seasonal to me; it was barely present at this time of the year.
We reached the pool, which was bigger than I had imagined, its waters very dark. There was a rock wall overhung with shrubs on its western side, which was where – so Mai told me – the spring bubbled up from beneath the earth. A larger stream flowed away from the copse across the hills, stronger than the brook through the trees. Mai explained that her saint appeared upon a ledge in the rock above the pool. She did not move from this location, nor speak aloud. ‘I hear her inside,’ Mai said. She looked at the small-faced watch on her left arm. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go. It’s nearly time for Mass. It’s Saint Galar’s day tomorrow. This is her eve.’
Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more Page 47
