The Elf in the Alder-part one

I was seated in my garden enjoying a book when a large black bird came crashing into an alder on the wooded bank behind me. When I looked again, the bird was gone but now there was a tiny bearded man clinging to the topmost branch. "Who are you?" I called up. "But you can't see me!" he yelled. "But I can see you." "That is not helpful!" he cried. "The spell is failing!" "Come down immediately," I said. "I can't! Heights paralyze me!" "An odd place to be for one so afflicted." "You great hulking fool!" he sputtered. "I am not here by my own design! Please help me down." "Oh very well. Just give me a moment to find my ladder." "Please hurry," he whimpered. "Sorry for calling you a fool!" --- Once I had the little man out of the alder and seated on my counter drinking tea and brandy from a thimble, he told me everything. "My name is Blue Wednesday and until recently I was a prisoner of the Malificent Gruzzela!" "Who might she be?" I asked. "More later," he assured me. "Why did she take you prisoner?" "I'll get to that." "But how-" "Look, friend, why not let me tell my story my way?" "Sorry, sorry..." I apologized. It was difficult for me to work as a journalist for the Times and not immediately fall into the role of Inquisitor. I am always rushing raconteurs to the point, urging them to cut to the chase. Impatience is one of my character flaws. "Where was I? Oh yes, a prisoner of the cruelest witch ever to curse mankind. Why, you may ask, did she take me prisoner?" "I did ask," I murmured gently. "You see before you the scion of the House of Nod, prince of my people. The witch was holding me hostage against the yielding up of the Silver Wand." Here he gave me a sharp look, no doubt to arrest any questions concerning the said Wand. "The Wand is all she lacks," he continued. "Her power is already beyond that of all other workers of magic, fair or foul. It was vital for my father not to give into her, even though it would mean sealing my doom." "But you escaped," I said, nudging his story ahead a tiny bit. "Ah, I befriended a mouse who lived in the wall near my cage. I persuaded him to bring me a page out of a spell-book that I'd seen in her library. It was a spell for transforming oneself into an invisible crow. Unfortunately, Reggie rather mangled the spell in bringing the page to me. I found that I could turn into a bird but my motor controls for flying were not very predictable." "And that's how you found yourself in my alder?" He bowed to me. "Precisely! The spell had a rather short shelf life. And now we must put our heads together and plan our next move." "Our next move?" I protested. "Surely you mean, your next move?" "What? After hearing my story, you are untouched by my plight? Do you not see that your own future, indeed the future of all who live on this green globe are affected by this dread witch? To do nothing to help me would be criminal!" "Until this morning, I'd never even heard of this Gruzzela!" I complained. "How do you imagine that I can do anything to help you, save rescuing you from my tree?" "But, my dear friend, there are no coincidences! It was fated that you should rescue me and join our struggle against the forces of evil!" "Please, little man, I cannot indulge this grandiose notion of yours. Now finish your tea and be on your way." The little man shook his head sadly and hopped to the floor. He left without saying another word. I watched him disappear into the woods directly behind me. I went back to my garden to enjoy the summer sun dancing on my begonias, to smell the fragrance of honeysuckle and try to forget the wild story that the elf had told me. I picked up my Agatha Christie and soon lost myself in the plot. It had to be the parson; he was the only one who I didn't seem to have a motive. I heard St. Martin's bell sounding three and I went inside to make myself a cucumber sandwich and a pot of tea. I was inspired by the smell of fresh strawberries so I tossed a few into a bowl and covered them with fresh cream. "What a pig you are!" I said to myself with a broad smile on my face. I went outside to note with displeasure that the sun had gone behind a rather dark cloud. Rain! I thought, as I scurried to bring everything inside. I heard a rumble of thunder and I swore as I slopped tea onto my sandwich. Where was my perfect afternoon going? And what was that shrieking that I heard over the wind? Shivering, I slammed the door shut and tried to go back to my ruined tea. The storm seemed to gain in power with each passing minute. I looked out the window; the trees were thrashing back and forth under a violent wind, leaves were scattering everywhere. I switched on the radio to see if I could get a weather report for this most sudden storm. I could get absolutely no signal which distressed me. What was going on? I turned on the television set and again, nothing. It was most irregular. I picked up the phone and there was not even a hint of a connection. It was like I was isolated on a desert island. I wondered if my neighbour, the Major, was likewise cut off. I tried to open my door but the wind was so strong that I couldn't open it even a crack. I began to sweat. Who ever heard of a hurricane in England? I decided that I would be marginally safer downstairs in my little wine cellar. I confess that I opened some port for my nerves while I sat in the dim light and tried to remember my childhood prayers. "Praying?" said a thin voice from the dark. "And so you may, so you may..." "Who are you?" I asked, my voice even thinner, almost a squeak. I could not see anyone in the gloom. "I'm a friend of the elf Wednesday. He told me to come to you and pass on this message." A tiny note was handed to me by what I now could see was a dark rodent of some sort. I opened the thrice-folded note and read the following: Still think it's none of your concern? This storm is Gruzzela clearing her throat; it will only get worse for you! Join us!! Mole can take you safely to headquarters. Blue Wednesday I turned to the mole. "The elf says you can take me to his headquarters." "That I can, mate. I tunneled into your cellar from the North Branch of the Great Tunnel. If you have a shovel, you can access the G.T. with just a bit of elbow grease." I went to get a spade and together we widened his tunnel so that I could travel through it. I will say nothing of the Great Tunnel except that if gardeners knew what moles were really capable of, they would all turn in their rakes and hoes and surrender their gardens en masse. Moles have rather let us off gently. Don't let those furry, funny little faces fool you. We traversed the Great Tunnel for several hours until the mole turned to me and indicated a slowly sloping branch. "That's your way, mate! Good luck!" "Thanks very much Mr...?" "Oh, we moles don't have names as such. We don't hold with such anthropomorphic muck. Mr. Mole is sufficient for me." "Thank you Mr. uh...Mole." "Just deal with the witch, mate. That's thanks enough for me!" I went up the sloping branch and come to a round green door. I rapped on it and hearing nothing, opened it slowly. I looked around a well lit room with maps on every wall and a plethora of beakers, burners and test tubes in the sink. Water was still running. I spied a note on the table. She's onto us. Getting out while the getting is good! Will send someone to find you. Avoid open areas. B.W. What was I to do? Should I go back into the tunnel? Clearly, the headquarters was no safe place for me. I reluctantly headed back into the tunnel but then stopped. If the witch had figured out the location of the headquarters surely she would soon be onto the Great Tunnel as well? I was paralyzed with fear. I heard a racket at the front door of headquarters. That decided me, I lunged for the back door to the tunnel when a searing flash of flame flew past me and reduced the door to a pile of smoking bits. I turned around and saw a tall woman with blue black hair and flaming eyes standing there with fire leaping from her outstretched palms. "Fancy another?" she sneered. I shook my head no, and shivered. "I thought not. Right! Where are the Elves and my Wand?" "I just arrived," I said. "There was nobody here." "Zut! I am beginning to lose patience with this rebellion!" Her face turned an exceedingly unpleasant shade of red and I could see her palms flare up again. I fell to my knees expecting a bolt of fire with my name on it. "Mercy!" I cried. "Mercy?" she said. "What does that mean?" "Um, you know, mercy? As in, have mercy?" "What? What are you blubbering about?" I could see that mercy was a wholly unknown quality to Gruzzela so I stopped blubbering immediately. "Right! You will take me to this elf prince!" "But I don't know where he is!" I moaned. "Do I have to do everything?" she bellowed. "I'll do anything I can to help you! " I cried, hoping to avoid being flambéed. "That's more like it!" she said, her palms returning to a low blue flame. "Now tell me all you know." This did not take long but I threw in a few lies (journalistic licence) to keep her from poaching me. I told her that Blue Wednesday was aware that she knew of his headquarters so he went over the Sea to Elvish Island and the courts of his father. This was, of course, a bit of balderdash, but I had to buy some time to think. "You will sail with me to this Island," she said. "Come, we will ride in my chariot!" Her chariot was a large copper coloured affair pulled by a silvery dragon. As soon as we entered it, she cracked a large whip and cried: "Over the sea, Draco! With all speed!" I cried out directions as we set out for a wholly imaginary island. What she would do to me once she uncovered my ruse I didn't like to think. I decided to find out what was going on. Once a journalist... "I am told that there is no one as powerful as you," I began. Flattery is never a bad way to go when talking with the rich and powerful, I have found. "I am the 'ne plus ultra'!" she said proudly. "Once I have my wand back, there will be no stopping me. "Your wand? But how did the Elves come by it?" "They are filthy thieves!" she shrieked. "It was always to have been mine!" Her voice had the tone that I had heard politicians use when trying to justify something that they should properly be ashamed of, like awarding a government contract to a relative. "How do you mean?" I asked respectfully. "I was the heir of Sir Wroth! I had the keys! I was the Immaculate Thorn! The Wand was rightfully mine!" "I don't understand anything you just said," I said carefully. "That's because you are a mere human! What can you know of the Real World?" "Perhaps, one so wise as you can explain it?" I said. "Wroth made the Wand when he was at the apex of his powers. He concentrated all that he knew or suspected of magic into it. The one who wields it is beyond any other power. I was his heir, holder of the keys to his tower. I was named Immaculate Thorn and I was charged with carrying out his Cleansing Campaign." "Um, Cleansing Campaign?" "The Real World was no longer to be divided between the Children of Severity and the Children of Laxity; the True Worshippers would ascend on high while those who turned from ruthless devotion would be purged! Ha! And I was to be the one who would cast out those limp, soft hearted, brainless ones..." Here, her face became so grim that I could not look on it anymore, but shivered in fear. "You are a True Worshipper?" I said presently. "I, alone." she said glaring at me. Of course, I wanted to ask her who she worshipped, but I held my tongue. She was becoming agitated and an agitated fanatic is not good for the health. Her eyes were red with blood. "Fear not, mortal. Know that soon I shall wreak such vengeance on those Elves that they will never rise again. The Children of Laxity will wail and gnash their teeth! Ha!" "But how did the ...eh Children of Laxity come by your wand?" "When Wroth was on his deathbed and I was trying to nurse him back to health, the elves stole it from the Tower." "And now they wield it against you?" "Oh no, they would not dare do such a thing; they know that only a True Worshipper may use the thing. Elves are not made of stern stuff." We soared over the grey sea and in the distance I could make out a grey island shrouded in mist. It was right where I had indicated that it would be, which I found rather strange. How did I know that an island would be there? "That's the island," I called, thinking that when we landed, I could escape somehow. I will confess to being terrible at thinking on the fly. Those who play chess against me know that I take forever to make a move. I am always considering my steps carefully. But what could I do? We swooped down and came to a crunching halt on a sandy beach. "This is Elvish Island?" asked Gruzzela. "It does not reek of Elvish ways or Elvish blood." "Oh yes," I squeaked. "...Um...no doubt they have clouded their scent to escape detection." Would she buy it? Her face was difficult for me to read even if I dared to look into her terrifying eyes. I got by with tiny glances. "Guard the chariot with Draco while I reconnoitre," she said briskly. "I will get to the bottom of this!" I watched her disappear down the beach and heaved a huge sigh of relief. I looked at the dragon and was surprised to see it peering intently at me, and then a ghost of a smile stole over his scaly face. "What are you going to do when she doesn't find any sign of the elves?" said the dragon. "Pardon me?" I said, gaping a bit. "You heard me. If this is Elvish Island, I'm Robin Red-breast." "How do you know?" I gasped. "Because I happen to know that there is no such place as Elvish Island." "But you followed my directions here!" "Well, it would not do for me to tell Gruzzela that we were on a wild goose chase." "Why ever not?" I asked. "Because I am in league with the Children of Laxity, although we call ourselves the 'Children of Light'. I keep an eye on the Witch so that the elves are protected," said the dragon. "Let's escape then! Let's fly away and join them!" "I can't do that, little human. My job is to pass on intelligence from the enemy camp. If I flee with you, the Witch will know me for a traitor and I will cease to be useful. But, never fear, the elves know exactly where you are." "Will they be able to rescue me?" "That remains to be seen," said the dragon calmly. "You will need your wits about you when she comes back." "I don't know what to do!" I snapped. "Can't I just run off?" "Where would you run to?" asked the dragon sagely. "You're on an island in the middle of nowhere. If you run off, she will know your true colours." "I am doomed," I said hollowly. "Nonsense, we are, all of us, in the hands of God. Don't be afraid, frail one." "I wouldn't have thought that dragons were devout," I said bitterly. "Amazing how much you don't know, when you think about it," said the dragon calmly. "Hush now, I hear her coming. You better have a good explanation!" I heard her before I saw her. She was shouting out all sorts of oaths and I knew that I was doomed. "Here, take this," hissed the dragon. "It will lead the elves to you." He handed me a small silver necklace with a tooth on it. I quickly threw it over my neck and braced myself. She came thundering up the beach and called out, "I have found their lair. Come quickly and we will ambush them!" "Well, that's a bit of luck," hissed the dragon to me. "But how in hell..." I said. "Hurry," shrieked the Witch and so we hurried. It was hard to match her pace as she hurtled through the forest, following a trail marked out with smooth white stones. I stumbled along, trying to understand what was happening to me, like a man trying to break out of a dark dream. At length, she turned around and beckoned to me. "Here, we must be very still. The Elves are directly ahead in the clearing ahead of us. I will cast a Net Spell but it may not be effective over so great a company so be prepared to seize any who may escape," she whispered. Ahead, I could see about a hundred small men massed around a fire. They seemed to be focused on one of their number who was reading from a large red book. Gruzzela lifted her hands on high and started to cry out her spell when suddenly all of the Elves in the clearing disappeared. "It's a cheat!" yelled Gruzzela. "A holograph!" We entered the clearing to see that it was completely empty. My head was spinning. Just then a blazing light sprang up out of the place that the fire had been. I screamed like a little girl, completely blinded and I felt strong hands gather me up and pull me away and then all was blurry. -------------------

Auld Lang Syne

I was walking in velvety darkness. If there was a path at my feet, I could not see it. Does a blind man know if he is floating?
I could see a pinprick of light in the distance and I moved toward it. It increased in size and my eyes dilated.
I stepped through a doorway and saw a man dressed all in formal black attire. He was standing in front of a fire in the comfortable study. He smirked at me and raised his wine glass in a mock salute. He was extremely ugly in a completely unconventional way.
“I have been waiting for you,” he said. I noticed that his eyes glittered but his mouth betrayed no emotion. I said nothing. I looked for Hector but he was not there. Where was he?
--------
I woke up then. I looked at my clock, took a drink of water and rang for Percy. He helped me into my chair and went downstairs to prepare my breakfast. It was a Thursday, so I had office hours after ten. No time in the lab until noon. I looked in the mirror and frowned. My skin was too yellow, my forehead too lined, my eyes too bloodshot. I wheeled back to bed and picked up the book I had been reading. The author was some sort of Jewish mystic and I quickly lost patience with his Kabbalistic babble. If he knew something new, it was hidden under odd revelations of wrestling angels, number systems and God. None of these made sense to me and I threw the book into the fireplace with an oath.
I ate breakfast and Percy wheeled me to my waiting car. I was driven to Caius and entered my office to listen to the mewling and puking of those callow fools that I was given to tutor. I hated this part of the work and the students knew it. Without fail, every fresh new face went pale witnessing my decrepitude and the slow working of my disease. I hated their healthy young faces and longed to smash every pitying look they gave me.
I am obsessed with life, now that mine is concluding with a whimper. I long for health but no doctor can give it to me. I have become a connoisseur of treatments: chemic, holistic, naturopathic, clinic and placebic. I have undergone radiation, massage, vile herbs, colonic irrigation, stretching, crystals, and surgery. Nothing is effective. So now I am going to take matters into my own hands.
-------
I instructed my driver to take me to visit Greenfields. The grounds were well manicured and the buildings stood proudly in the light of a soft April sun. Appearances can be so deceiving.
I spoke to the nurse at the front counter and she wheeled me into Hector’s receiving room. He seemed little changed in the months that I have visited him. His eyes were the usual dull brown, and his face sagged like a balloon with a slow leak. Drool collected in the corners of his mouth. I took out my kerchief and dabbed at it like a solicitous nanny.
“How are you faring today, Hector?”
He never responded to my questions nor even gave a sign that he had heard anything.
“Do you know why I visit you, my boy?” I asked. “I am building a track record as your kindly uncle. One day soon, I will remove you from this place and take you home with me. And then, everything will change. Oh yes, your body will have a captain once more and this captain will have his ship. So be well, Hector!”
I bowed to him and prepared to wheel away. I stopped because I saw something wholly different appear in his eyes.
“I am not yours,” said Hector. And then he went blank again.
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My doctor was the best that money could buy. And what did my money buy? A death sentence.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Goode. Your disease has reached a terminal phase,” he said, looking down at his papers.
“How long, Doctor?”
“Perhaps as much as six months, more probably less.”
“There is no hope of remission?” What a fool I was, grasping at straws. He could barely look up at me. He shook his head.
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The lecture was advertised as being “A Scientific Examination of Astral Travel and Soul Migration.” My heart sank as I wheeled to the first row; the hall was full of old women and mad-looking foreign types. I was surrounded by true believers. I feared I would be the only scientist there.
A man wearing dark robes advanced to the lectern and the lights dimmed. He spoke as though telling a story rather than propounding axioms. In spite of my misgiving, I leaned forward and listened. Desperation will do that.
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I wheeled myself back to my car. My mind was racing. It was probably madness, but what did I have to lose? I would arrange for my man Henderson to draw up the necessary papers tomorrow and Hector would be my ward before the week was out.
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“What you are proposing is madness, Uncle Hugo!” said my nephew, his face a battlefield between amazement and dismay.
“It may be, Clive...but what other choice is there? I die anyway. What if it is a possibility? What if I can leap from one body to another at the moment of death?”
“Soul migration is neither sound science nor good theology,” he said firmly.
“I need your help,” I said holding up my empty hands in supplication. “If I can make the leap, I will need your help with the legalities as executor of my estate.”
“It is appointed to men once to die,” he said.
“Don’t quote Scripture at me,” I said. “Do what I tell you to!”
“Very well,” he said grimly, his lips tight with displeasure.
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I smiled at the inert form of Hector as my chauffeur belted him in beside me. I looked at him critically: broad shoulders, well formed legs, perhaps a bit adipose around the trunk. What joy I would get from transforming him into a physical specimen. What pleasure to feel the slight burning of exertion and a racing heart. I would make this lump of flesh into an athlete, a demi-god, a colossus! I pictured myself walking, running, bending and hurling the javelin like an unclothed Spartan at the earliest Olympics. Oh, to be free of this hideous body and its umbilical cord to my wheelchair! I shivered with anticipation.
I had Hector fed and then wheeled into my laboratory. I gave him a powerful sedative so that my migration would not be resisted and then I had my chef make me a last meal.
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Hector was fast asleep; his face almost human now that his ravaged psyche was not tearing it into all directions. I held up the draft of poison and drank deeply. At once, the child’s prayer flashed into my hazy thoughts. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
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I was back in my dream again, walking in the bright darkness toward a distant light. I stepped into the room of light and at once I felt Hector’s somnolence. But where was Hector? I had to cast him out of his room and take his throne.
A door opened and the man in black entered.
“Where is Hector?” I asked.
“That is not your concern; you can’t get to him except through me.”
“Who are you?”
“Apparently I am a stranger to you, Doctor Goode.”
“How do you know my name?”
“There are no secrets in this plane.”
“What is your name?”
“I have many, but you may call me Judge, for that is assuredly what I am.”
“I have no argument with you. I merely want to take over this useless body.”
“Useless, is it? Tell me what you know of usefulness, Doctor.”
“Obviously, an insane mind is not worthy of a healthy body.”
“Really? Present your case and I will judge it.”
“You can’t tell me that Hector is worthy of his healthy body. He is not even present in the truest sense. He drools, grunts and gapes. We slaughter livestock with more self-awareness than Hector possesses.”
“Very well. Now present your argument for taking over his body.”
“If you know my name, you know that I am well regarded in my field for the brilliance of my insight and experimentation. I could go on living for many more decades with a healthy body. Think of the good that I could do! I simply need more time.”
“Your words are persuasive. Now I will weigh your heart...” He reached out to my chest and flicked the pale skin with a long fingernail. I gasped as a line of blood appeared. He reached in and pulled out my beating organ. He pulled out a brass scale and laid it carefully on it. He stooped down and a most disconcerting grin appeared on his ugly face.
“My dear Doctor, my scale tells me that your heart is almost completely self-centered. All your work is done to amplify your reputation in the scientific community. You never married because it did not suit your nature to share anything with a woman. Your profession relationships are marked with competitiveness rather than collegiality.” He took my heart and smelled it closely. “It is weak from lack of use, Doctor Goode.” He shrugged and put my heart back inside my chest. I gasped as I felt it beating within me.
“So that’s it?” I said, trying not to shake.
“I will give you a choice,” he said. “I will permit you to take this body but with one stipulation.”
“Tell me,” I said; my voice a squeal of desperation.
“You can have a healthy body but you must give up something.”
“Anything!”
“I want your mind.”
“But, but, without my mind, I am nothing. You can’t ask me to submit to the broken mind of an insane man!”
“That is your choice. What will you do?”
“It is no choice!”
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I woke up then, lying in a sour pool. I felt strong hands pushing on my heart and I gasped for air.
“Easy Doc... We almost lost you there.” The voice was Percy’s but I was still blind. “Not sure what happened there?” His voice held an interrogative but I was hardly in the mood to discuss poison with my underling.
“Can you talk Doc?” I found that I could not. To my shock I could feel drool collecting at the corners of my mouth. I gurgled like a newborn.

The Christmas Hamster

I knew that I would regret it, but when I looked into his beady brown eyes I saw such a naked longing that it about took my breath away. It was as though I could hear him saying, “Save me, Jake! It’s all up to you!”
Oh, please don’t think that I am a sucker to every cute rodent that gives me the Bambi eyes; I am tough, masculine and I don’t worship at the shrine of cuteness. Japanese pop culture, with its wide-eyed anime, gives me the willies. Give me a fishing rod, a stallion to break and a cold beer after a game of football and all is right with my world. Okay, I’m exaggerating a bit but nobody would ever call me a girly man. Maybe my brother would, but consider the source: Chuck is an ex-Marine, ex-football captain and general all-conference hard-ass. He thinks it’s sissy to use a bottle opener when you can just as easily chew it off with your teeth. Daddy raised us tough in this hard scrabble land.
So why was I even considering the rodent? The truth is: my kids make me. You talk about Bambi eyes. They all three of them came to me and said, “Oh Daddy, if we had a hamster, we would love it, and take good care of it, and it would really be no problem, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” You can’t hear those squeaky voices with those big blue eyes dialled on full Daddy laser without feeling a tug. It sure didn’t help that Alice was in on it either. “It’s just a hamster, Jake. At least you won’t have to take it for walks.”
So, call me a sucker if you want, but you would have had to be superhuman to turn down those four. Here I was at McCardell’s Pets, checking out the critters. Along comes McCardell himself and sizes up the situation pretty quickly. “He’s cute, isn’t he, Jake?” I mumbled something noncommittal and he wraps a meaty arm around my shoulder and starts massaging. “He’s pretty cheap, you know...”
And just like that, I’m walking down Main with a cage and a hamster called Louie. You can’t miss me; I’m the guys with the burning cheeks, hoping that I can get the rodent home before one of my buddies spot me. No such luck; out of Bud’s comes the shambling figure of my old wingman Steve.
“Heya, Jake!”
“Heya, Steve. Kinda early to be drinkin’, isn’t it?”(Best defence is a good offense, as Coach Myer used to say.)
“Aw Jake, you’re sho boring when you’re shober! Hey, whatchoo gothere?” (So much for my best defence.)
“Nothin’, Steve. Hey, does Wanda know you’re tying one on?”
And suddenly, Steve bursts in tears, snot bubbling out of his huge honker.
“She lef’ me, Jake. Wan’a lef’ me!”
“Whoa Steve, just settle down. Take a deep breath and talk to me.” I gave him a few tentative pats on the back so he could get his breath back. He took a deep breath and rubbed the snot over the rest of his red face.
“Now, Wanda left you? Why would she do that?”
“She shays I’m an alcoholic and I need to get into a Twelve Step program or she won’t come home!”
I was staggered. I mean, I know Steve loves a beer every now and again, but an alcoholic? I didn’t know what to say to him. Suddenly, this thought pops into my head. “Tell him to try the A.A. meeting over in Buckley at St. Mike’s.”
So I told him about the meeting at St. Mike’s and he gave me a slobbery hug and told me that I was “the beshtes’ frien’ ever.” He staggered off, leaving me with the question, how the heck did I know about the A.A. meeting? I could hear the hamster rattling in his cage and I hurried out of the cold into my truck.
Out here, you need a truck and chains. It snows and snows, waits a minute and then snows so more. My cousin out in Seattle likes to send me emails about how warm and green it is out there this time of year. I like to ask him if he misses White Christmases, which usually shuts him up. I fired up the truck and headed for our spread up Sunshine Road.
Now when I say ‘spread’, don’t the idea that I am some kind of rancher like Daddy was. I’m purely a weekend farmer with a few head of cattle and a little seed corn. But I do like having elbow room and living out of the town. I’m a country boy.
I parked in front of the shed and hustled the little package into my office. Yeah, I said ‘office’; although my wife likes to call it the ‘cave’, like it’s a place for gnawing bones and breaking wind. I set the package on my desk and left to brew some coffee. I raided the cookie jar because I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, or ‘several sweet teeth’ according to Alice. She watches me like a hawk, always reminding me to floss. You’ll note that I said ‘reminding’ not ‘nagging’, right?
I brought my coffee into the office and took the wrapping off of the cage. The varmint just sat there looking at me with those little eyes. I made sure that he had some fresh water and added some seeds to his dish. I ambled over to my easy chair and picked up my paper.
Wars and rumours of war, like the Good Book says. I flipped to the sports section to find out if the columnists figured the football season was redeemable. 3 and 8 was not very pretty. Maybe the new quarterback would find his stride soon. Maybe chickens would fly to the moon.
A thought popped in my head, I hadn’t spent any time with my kids yet this weekend. Well, there was time for that later. Kids need to get at least four hours of cartoons on a Saturday morning. But then my brain starting to argue with me. They grow up before you know it, I thought. How old was Bruce now? Eight? Pretty soon, he’d be old enough to take trapping.
I went to the rec room and there were three pairs of eyes glued on the antics of some green clown with buggy eyes on the t.v.
“Hey kids! Who wants to go outside and make a snowman?” Six eyes stayed focused on the t.v. and assorted mumbles emerged from three mouths. “We’re watching Count Dizzy, Daddy! Maybe later...” Oh well, I gave it my best shot, I thought shrugging my shoulders. I didn’t even see Alice standing in the doorway.
“Okay kids, everybody up and at it! Boots, coats, scarves and mittens! Your Daddy has a hankering for some fresh air and snowman-building! Let’s go!”
Women amaze me. With two sentences she had those three dressed and outside in less than two minutes. I wish I knew her secret.
We made snowmen for the two boys and then a snow princess for my own little princess. You can tell them apart because the snow princess has a pointy hat. I know it looks a lot like a dunce cap (which the boys made sure to point out) but Kristin was so happy she was positively glowing.
“Make snow angels!” the thought popped in my head. It was a dumb idea but the kids were all excited and red-cheeked, so I did it anyway, fool though I might be. They all jumped down with me and together we made a herd of angels, a stampede of the heavenly host. And then it was inside to fill up on hot chocolate and marshmallows. I went back to my office feeling as light as a feather. God, I loved my kids. I don’t know why I spend so little time with them. I picked up the cage and peered at the hamster. Louie stared right back at me.
“I kinda love my kids,” I said, full of beans.
“I know,” he said. “You just don’t always think of how you can show it to them.”
I dropped the cage.
=====
My heart pounded as I poured myself a quick shot in the kitchen. It was only my imagination, it was only my wild imagination. Hamsters don’t talk! Just calm down, Jake! I took a deep breath and tried to relax. Clearly I was under some substantial strain that I was unaware of, right?
“Jake! What are you doing with whiskey at lunchtime?” Alice bustled in with a tray of sandwiches.
“You would drink too!” I muttered.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m cracking up...”
“Oh Jake!” she said, ruffling my thinning hair. “Quit goofing around.”
I shrugged and tiptoed back to my office.
He was sitting calmly in his cage which had fallen on its side.
“So Louie, you can talk?” The hamster just got up on his haunches and looked at me with those bright eyes. I laughed nervously, glad that I’d said nothing to Alice.
I picked up the cage and put it on my desk. I opened my laptop and started playing “Angry Birds.” Several hours later, it occurred to me that I was hungry. And then I thought, I should really do something special for the mother of my children, like maybe take her out to the DQ or something. When was the last time we went on a real date? Maybe I should do it right and take her to the nice place out in Birch Creek?
Well, we had a great time. Why didn’t we do this more often? I drove the sitter home and went to my office to turn off the laptop.
The hamster looked at me and put his paws up on the cage.
“You wanna get out, Louie?” I picked him up and gave his head a pat.
“You know, Louie, I had a great time. I should take Alice out more often. What do you think?” Do hamsters smile? Because, if they do, this one was beaming. I tickled his ears because dogs like it so why shouldn’t hamsters?
“You know, when you do that, it’s kind of irritating,” said Louie. I didn’t drop him because this time I was frozen with shock. I slumped into my armchair still clutching the hamster.
“You really can talk, Louie?”
“Please, my name’s not Louie. I am the angel Timaes.”
“I must be drunk,” I whimpered.
“On two glasses of Merlot? I highly doubt it,” he said, his little nose wrinkling up.
“You know what I drank tonight?”
“Did you miss the part where I said I was an angel?”
“Why would an angel come to my house?”
“To help you.”
“To help me do what? Do I have a Quest or something?”
“You’re already beginning your quest and that’s all I’ll say about it.”
My mind raced; God had big plans for me. Maybe, it was to be President or something, or to be an apostle or a missionary to Hollywood or something. The hamster just sighed as it read my thoughts.
“Why do you think that a quest has to be so grandiose?” he asked. “What if God just wants you to be a better father and husband?”
My bubble popped and went shooting around the room. “That’s my quest? God sends me an angel so I’ll be a better Dad and Husband?”
“You went to Bible School, didn’t you Jake?” asked the hamster.
“I had a couple semesters,” I admitted. They booted me out for missing chapel too often.
“Do you remember what it says in Luke about John the Baptist?”
“Um...”
“In fact, they read this passage at church last Sunday, and your pastor preached a sermon about John, didn’t he?”
“Aw Louie, I guess my mind was on the Bronco’s. I must have missed it.”
“It says that John the Baptist would prepare a way for the coming of Jesus. You do remember Jesus, don’t you Jake?” Now he was just being sarcastic.
“Course, I remember Jesus...” I muttered.
“John was to come in the power and wisdom of Elijah...”
“...to turn the hearts of the fathers to their children.” I finished. I must have been paying a little bit of attention last Sunday.
“Exactly,” said the hamster. “I am here to turn your heart back to your children and your wife.”
“My heart is not turned away from my kids,” I protested.
“In the last year, of your eight thousand odd hours, you spent nearly a thousand on your laptop surfing and playing games. On the other hand, you spent only sixty with your children. That’s roughly ten minutes a day. You spent more time playing Angry Birds.”
“Ouch.” I said rubbing the remnants of my hair. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, our record-keeping is most accurate,” said the hamster.
“What do I do?” I asked.
“You need to show fruits of repentance,” said the hamster. “Am I being clear?”
“Fruits?”
“You remember what John the Baptist said? ‘Those who steal must steal no longer.’ You have stolen from your family and now you must restore what you owe.”
“That’s a lot of hours to make up,” I said. “How am I going to do it?”
“Not to be a Luddite, but have you ever thought of turning off your laptop?”
I turned off the laptop, which beeped sadly as it said ‘sayonara’. “Level with me Louie; is there any hope for me, or have I botched it?”
“Psht,” spat the hamster. “Don’t be foolish. It is never too late! But don’t worry, I will stick with you in this and I won’t leave until my task is done.”
“Because then you’ll have earned your wings?” I said brightly.
“You watch entirely too much television!” grumbled the hamster.
=============
I know I watch too much t.v., but I changed my ways. Instead of holing up in my office, I spent time in the rec room doing what my kids were doing. I hung out in the kitchen, actually helping my wife clean up and such. I know I did kind of a crappy job of cleaning, but Alice smiles anyway.
=========
“What is it Daddy,” asked my little princess.
“It’s a present for all the kids,” I said. “But this year, the youngest gets to open it.”
“No fair!” whined her brothers from under a pile of torn wrapping paper and toys.
She tore off all of the wrapping paper and pulled out the cage. “It’s a dead hamster!” she sobbed. “Daddy, it’s a dead hamster!”
I smiled.

Leo Rex

I am the ugliest man ever to ascend to the Seat of St. Peter.
It is my ears: they explode from my head like gull’s wings, giving me the appearance of an aircraft coming in for a landing. This effect is not improved by the squatness of my nose, rudely hewn and plopped down like a potato under my watery grey eyes.
I have heard it said that appearance is destiny so my celibacy seemed like a foregone conclusion. After all, what woman would link the happiness of her future children to so homely a sire?
They call me Leo Rex, King Lion, and what a jungle I am lord over! The Vatican is dense, steamy and full of pitfalls and hungry carnivores. How did I come to be here?
I am here because of Cardinal Vicini. He knew that his many enemies would block his bid for the papacy, so he put all of his considerable guile and strength to plucking this little Carmelite abbot from obscurity and making me his candidate. Vicini is well-hated but then so were all of the other contenders for the triple-crown. I alone had no enemies. They say that a man without enemies is a man with only friends. So it proved, for when the white smoke streamed into the Vatican sky, it was this humble Carmelite who was anointed Pope.
Does this strike you as being an Ugly Duckling story? How I wish it were. How wonderful to see ugly Maximo transform into beautiful Leo and live happily ever after! Alas. My story is more like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, if Goldilocks had an iron grey tonsure and there were at least a thousand bears.
I hear you protest: but Maximo, you are il Papa, the Supreme Pontiff! Surely all must bow before your decrees! How can you call yourself a Goldilocks? I smile grimly at your assumption. You must be in my shoes to know how I must navigate this Latin swamp.
Vicini is chief of my bears. Imagine a bruin with silver hair, well-manicured claws, a dulcet growl and you have the illustrious Cardinal. He had hoped that bringing me to the throne would allow him to control its power. I’m afraid that he thought he would be Geppetto to my Pinocchio, pulling the strings and naming the tune that I would dance to. Sadly for Vicini, Pinocchio is turning out to be a real boy.
I am a man of prayer. Of course, it is assumed that all Popes must be devoted to divine intercourse, but Lord Acton’s words are reflected in most papal histories: absolute power corrupting absolutely. Popes of necessity become politicos.
No doubt, it was my books of meditation and prayer that attracted the Cardinal’s attention. Oho, thought he, a holy fool to make a papal puppet!
But I was and remain a man of prayer, thank God.
Of course, God himself is my biggest bear.
He has put it on my heart to take our Holy Church and put it into a rock tumbler. I am to deprive the Church of her celibate priesthood.
Oh, I know, I know! What is the Church without her abstentious leadership? Is it still the Holy Catholic Church? How then are we different than the Protestants or the Eastern Church? You don’t have to tell me.
And yet.
I was praying in my private chapel. Oh no, not that private chapel. Private? Moths pinned under glass have more privacy than the Holy Father at prayer. No, my chapel is a certain hillside near Siena, the grassy slopes where the trees mass together at the bottom like village women gathering at the well. This was my private place with God, my resting place.
My chauffeur, Antonio, longs to be a spy, working for the CIA or M16 perhaps. It is a wonderful for me to have a co-conspirator like him. He can whisk me away without any of my so-called servants knowing where their pope is. I don’t know how he does it, but no sooner do I give him my pleading sign than we are roaring down the road in a sporty Fiat toward the Tuscan hills.
Antonio stays with the smoking car while I walk through the golden grass and pray.
So it was last Tuesday in the middle of the afternoon on an almost warm day in early April. I was walking and listening. Listening? Was the Pope hearing voices? Was the homely Carmelite becoming a mystic like Francis or Teresa? Do not make me blush.
But God’s lambs hear his voice says John the Divine and this lamb was listening.
What does God sound like, you are wondering? He is never what you’d expect. He is always more stern and more loving, more joyous and more terrifying than the safely crucified Christ, pinned to his cross. Do I blaspheme? Please understand me, I am a lover of God, but my Jesus is not the meek Victorian schoolgirl painted by so many: the pale Jesus with haunted eyes and long blond hair. My Galilean is more of a whirlwind, a desert storm! When I walk with him, I am stirred, shaken, calmed and directed. I am not placated, spoiled or spoken down to. What is it you Americans say? Jesus is not my shrink.
I was walking on that fateful Tuesday and listening.
“What am I to do?” I prayed. I was full of concern for my poor benighted Church. I had heard rumours of yet another sexual scandal involving priests and children. My heart was torn with rage and anguish. I was desperate to receive some consolation, a ‘there, there Maximo’ from my Jesus.
“What should you do?” asked Jesus.
“What can I do?” I muttered.
“What did I do?” he asked.
I remembered the account of the Temple Cleansing. Jesus saw his Father’s house given over to money-changing and the sale of sacrificial animals. His lip did not tremble; his eyes did not tear up; he did not sigh with sorrow. No, Jesus took a whip and cleared the money-changers out. He physically removed those who adulterated the Temple. “My house shall be a house of prayer!’ he cried.
I was shaken. I pictured myself wielding a whip and driving the fallen priests out of the Holy Church.
“I will drive them all out of your house!” I promised.
“You are looking at fruit; I want you to deal with roots,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” I pleaded.
But he had said all that he would. I was left to meditate over the whole affair. I pondered a priesthood that could hide pedophiles. Would a married priesthood be less of a haven for broken men? Was that what I needed to do?
I needed to talk to a wise counsellor, so I flagged down Antonio and directed him to drive to Napoli and the office of my spiritual director.
Catherine is the most beautiful woman I know, and she is as wise as she is lovely. Her nut brown skin is caught up in laughing wrinkles. She is textured and noble. She outweighs me by about fifty pounds and she laughs like a wave coming over the seashore.
“You want to do what?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I know!” I cried. “Tell me that I’m delusional! Tell me that I’m not a realist! But what can I do?”
“You really think that removing celibacy as a condition for the priesthood will make pedophiles choose another vocation?”
“I don’t know if it will,” I said more quietly. “I think that some choose the priesthood because they hope it will be a safe haven from the urges that tear them up and perhaps they reason that God will heal them if they prove themselves to him?”
“So you would change the requirement of celibacy to strain out a few offenders?”
“It takes only a little yeast to leaven the whole lump of dough.” I could quote Scripture with the best of them. But then so could the Devil. This was why I needed the wisdom of my director.
“Have you spoken with anybody else about this?” she asked.
“Good God, no.”
“That is well,” she said. “Maximo, you must make this a matter of urgent prayer and study. Consult with the best minds and stay malleable in God’s hands. Come back to me in two weeks and we will discuss it further.”
+++
What are you up to, Leo Rex, slippery feline that you are? What are you doing when my spies lose sight of you? Your dismissive answers to my questions fill me with the deepest of suspicions. You say you need privacy to pray? I wonder.
I don’t trust you. I cannot understand you or your motives. I should have been Pope! All my life, I was groomed for the supreme post. I would have made the Church glorious again. A true power such as the world has not seen since Innocent III! What have you accomplished? You refuse my advice, saying “Oh Vicini! Our call is to be in the world but not of it. You want to be the world!” What nonsense! How is it possible to be a governor without bearing the burden of governing: protecting your back, knowing your enemies, placating your allies?
I will speak with Antonio again. A simple man like him will not long keep secrets from one such as I. Brother Feo, my first confessor, always said that I would have made a better lawyer than a priest. He should know! His cross examinations were always a model of Jesuit fine-toothed combing. I seldom left his presence without a surfeit of penances.
So, Antonio, what was the Pope doing in Napoli?
+++
Herr Doktor Carlinus Tropp has blue eyes that twinkle when his mind is racing from thought to thought. When I was in St. Piex Seminary, I was lucky enough to have Linus as a room-mate and a chess adversary.
It was glorious to watch him pull out the professor’s presuppositions and smite them with Teutonic wrath during our philosophy of religion classes. His dogged determination to find the truth delighted half of our teachers and terrified the rest. Woe betide the instructor who tried to palm off Linus by pulling out such chestnuts as “But, that is what the Church teaches, so you must accept it as true, Tropp!”
Linus has an office in the University but I needed to find a solitary place to meet. We met in an apartment that Antonio rents for my private meetings. I fear his spy-games mindset is beginning to rub off on me.
“So Leo XIV will be known as the pope who did away with celibacy, eh?” said Linus, pausing to drain the rest of his Dunkel Weizen. When he looked up at me, I smiled to see that a bit of foam was clinging to his moustache.
“Why would you do such a thing, Maximo?”
“I don’t intend to do away with celibacy, per se, but only to remove it as a prerequisite for the priesthood.”
“But why?” he repeated.
I told him about my vision and watched him shrug his shoulders. “I am no mystic Maximo. If you are planning to do such a thing you must be prepared to debate!” This was the Linus that I needed.
“Teach me then, Herr Professor! Illuminate your pope.”
He put his fingers together in a steeple and I could see his eyes sparkle as he marshalled his soldiers in ranks.
“We start with our first Pope, St. Peter. Married. In fact, there was no requirement for celibacy until the 12th century. Are we saying that a millennium of priests were all heretics?” On went the good Doktor dissecting and examining the issues. He dealt cleanly with the Pauline dogma that an unattached believer is more free to serve God, and chewed over the interesting idea that an unmarried man would give excellent advice as a marriage counsellor to his parishioners. By the time he had summed up, I was even more certain that I needed to do the unthinkable.
He looked at me with concern. “Have you considered how your enemies will attack you Maximo?” he asked.
“Go ahead. Tell me.”
“At the very least they will call you a hypocrite. ‘The Pope demands a married clergy but is unwilling to get a bride himself!’ they will say.”
“I told you already, I do not intend to foist marriage on my priests; I simply want to give them the choice!”
“You will still be called to practice what you preach, you know. If you remember your Church History, Luther fought priestly celibacy and his reward was a wife!”
“Can you imagine a woman near-sighted enough to marry me?” I laughed. He did not share in my mirth, instead he sighed. “You are making jokes? So might a chicken do as it is put in the stew pot.”
“This bird is tough enough, I assure you,” I said. He shrugged as if to say, we shall see.
+++
I only knew Dr. Althuis by her reputation. She was a clinical psychologist working with issues of sexual identity and imprinting. I needed to know how it was that people became pedophiliacs. We spoke of brain structure and past traumas, of alcohol and violence. I asked her whether removing celibacy as a condition of priesthood would keep them out of the priesthood.
“You misunderstand the nature of pedophilia if you think that marriage will offer a solution,” she said, her lips pressed tightly together. “Protestant ministers have pedophiliacs in their number too. It is a myth to think that only the unmarried can be offenders.”
“Is a cure hopeless then?” I asked, my heart leaden within me.
“Perhaps the solution lies with a different approach to screening potential priests,” she said. She had a haunted look in her eyes like one who has seen too much suffering. “The Church must do a better job of uncovering men who have a genuine vocation for the priesthood and those fleeing from their own torn psyches.”
I thanked her and made my way back to Antonio.
+++
It was clear that I had made a profoundly impulsive leap with not enough information. My assumption that all I had to do was to offer the option of marriage to discourage pedophiles from entering the priesthood was flawed. Perhaps that is why Jesus’ last words to me were about roots rather than fruit.
How could I make my Church safe? How could I ensure that pedophiles did not become priests? Unfortunately, there is no unified theory as to why men become child-abusers. Dr. Althuis was clear about this. Theories abounded: perhaps it was a problem with the brain chemistry, or a question of abuse, or could it be spiritual in nature. How could the Church screen this? Was it necessary to make every candidate take an MRI? I needed to confer with my director again.
+++
“I am the pope, Catherine. If I cannot find a way, how will my Church fare?” I jumped up from my chair and paced through her office, prodding her many leather bound books and fidgeting.
“You are not listening to me, Maximo. What was the last thing Jesus told you?” She remained as calm as ever.
“He told me to concern myself with roots not fruit.” I picked up a statue of St. John and began to polish it with my sleeve.
“And how do you interpret his command?” She took the statue from me and pointed to a chair.
“The fruits are abusive priests; the roots are the cause of this sin.” I sat down again, chastened.
“Very well then. Your task is not just to protect your Church but also to bring healing to its damaged members. The Shepherd bears not only a rod and staff but also oil for healing.”
+++
“Oh come, Antonio, surely you can tell me something more than that?” I said with what I hoped was a sad smile on my lips. A father pleading with his son to be a man and tell the truth.
“It is the truth, your Eminence,” he responded, his palms upturned in the classic Sicilian gesture of feigned truthfulness; a gesture which said ‘would I lie?’ and ‘can you prove it?’ simultaneously.
“You are saying that the Holy Father leaves the Vatican and pleasure drives? That he holidays? Now Antonio, you will forgive me if I am extremely doubtful?” Now my face wore the expression of an uncle who catches his beloved nephew in a bordello and is listening to a cock and bull story about being there by accident, a faulty road map perhaps.
“Oh, your Eminence,” says the Sicilian. “It is God’s own truth! The Holy Father needs to leave his responsibilities every so often. He gets so stressed.” Now his prayerful gesture is mean to illicit my pity and also to paint himself as devout and free of carnal subterfuge. Oh Antonio, you missed your calling; you should have become an actor.
I waved him away and went back to the papers cluttering my desk. At least, there was one man in the Vatican pulling his weight.
+++
I realized that if I was going to reform my priests that I would need to do some recruiting. My problem comes down to a bit of a Catch 22: those cardinals who most inclined to a call to holiness were precisely those who most identified with the most conservative point of view, whereas those cardinals who were inclined to reforming the church were most fixated on social reform. To them, holiness was all about feeding the poor and bringing in a Marxist heaven on earth.
Of course, now you are shrugging your shoulders and saying, ‘But Maximo, you are the Pope! Surely all you need do is publish a bull from your lofty throne and all will obey you! Why this skulduggery and plotting?’
How little you know of life in the jungle. In such a sweeping reform, I cannot simply speak ex cathedra and say “thus sayeth the Lord.” I must create a climate for changing perceptions. I must speak with Vicini.
+++
“Holy Father! To what am I indebted for your august presence?” Vicini is at his charming best, a bear who shows you his beautiful smile with all of his teeth on display.
“Ah, Cardinal, you have always been such a support to me! I know that I can come to you with any problem and you will see solutions where all I see is confusion.”
“Please Father, you must sit down and tell me everything. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Thank you, Cardinal.” I continue to use his title to register a tiny protest against his deliberate switch in address from ‘Holy Father’ to ‘Father’.
“Tuscans are all rascals, but you cannot argue against their wine. It is always superb.” Vicini is from Milan and feels that all areas south of Lombardy are full of rogues and Mafiosi. Together we tasted our wine and nodded our approval.
I decided to grab the bear by his paws.
“Cardinal Vicini, I am called by God to reform our priesthood.” He said nothing but raised his eyebrows.
“We must make sure that all pedophiles are weeded out of the priesthood before they can do damage to our children,” I continued.
“How do you intend to do that?” he asked quietly, almost respectfully.
“I am unsure. I believe that we must screen potential priests more stringently...” I said.
“But already we lack enough priests to lead our congregations.” The Cardinal was on his feet pacing. “We are desperate to increase candidates not further limit them!”
“What if we were open to married priests?” I said. “What if we investigated allowing women to be priests?”
“You want me to help you cast Mother Church into chaos?” he said. “Our people would be appalled! They will leave the Church in droves. You will cause the conservative wing of the Church to split away! It will be another Babylonian captivity. You cannot be serious!” Vicini continued to pace around, thoroughly exercised. I was seeing the real man now, not the smooth politician.
“Sometimes it is necessary to go through pain to achieve healing,” I said. “Jesus said that he would shake everything that could be shaken.”
“So let the Christ shake his Church,” spat Vicini. “You are its Shepherd, not its cement mixer!”
“You will not help your Pope?”
“I am helping you, Your Holiness. I am giving you excellent advice: leave well enough alone!” With that, the bear stormed out of my room.
+++
So. Now I know. The poor misguided fool will throw my Church into a volcano. How could I have misjudged him so? How does a simple abbot become so dangerous? It’s too bad that the Borgia’s are no longer with us. One of them would surely have poisoned the fool by now.
But, I would never do such a thing, would I?
+++
“What are you talking about, Antonio?” I sat in what I hoped was a posture of complete unconcern. My chauffeur, on the other hand, was vibrating like a cheap alarm clock, his hands making rapid arabesques in the air around his head and heart.
“You listen to me, your Holiness! This Cardinal Vicini is no good! He has the heart of a rotten oak, beautiful on the outside but black inside. He means you harm, Holy Father! Please let me hire you some more muscle.”
“You are being ludicrous, Antonio! You would surround your pope with armed guards?” With a supreme effort, I softened the harshness of my voice and pleaded. “I’m supposed to be the solid rock on which the Church is built, you know.”
“You are a good and holy man, your Holiness,” said my guardian, in a tone that suggested ‘but not too terribly aware of the risks of the real world.’
“What am I going to do with you, Antonio?” I waved my hand in dismissal. He left the room shaking his head.
Alone, I slumped in my leather chair. What if he was right?
+++
“You heard me.” Vicini’s mouth was a hard line. He sat behind the large black desk as though he were carved there.
“I did hear you. I just don’t believe what I heard.” Don Francisco was not a religious man, but even he had limits. “You want me to poison the Pope?”
“I understand that you are a man who can get things done, Don Francisco. You aren’t squeamish, are you?” Well, this was nonsense. Don Francisco had made murder an art form. Squeamish? The Pit-Viper of Palermo?
“It’s a hell of a thing to ask a Catholic to do.”
“Trust me. If this man doesn’t die, he will destroy the Holy Catholic Church.” This, Vicini believed with all his heart. Leo Rex had to go.
+++
Antonio set up the tiny video camera. I marvelled that so small a thing could do what Antonio assured me it could do.
“All you got to do is look at the camera and talk, your Holiness. It does everything else for you.”
“Now, you understand my desire, Antonio?”
He sighed and recited my orders: “Do nothing while you are still alive. If you should die before your work is done, it goes on Youtube and every other social network immediately.”
“That’s right, Antonio.”
“You know what this is, Holy Father?”
“Tell me, Antonio.”
“This is fatalism. You know that that pig Vicini has it in for you and you don’t let me help you. It’s suicide, Holy Father, and that’s a sin.” He stood with his arms folded across his chest and his lower lip trembling just a bit. The nuns had done a good job catechizing him.
“Oh, Antonio. I know how you feel, but I am in God’s hands.”
He switched on the camera and I read a prepared statement.
+++
I picked up the paper and frowned at the respectful headline: “Pope Declares a New Reformation.” The journalist went on to delineate all that the Pope wanted to do to address the problem with our clergy: mandatory screening for candidates to the priesthood, opening a dialogue to bring married men and women into the priesthood, and ordering all current priests to attend counselling to determine their fitness to lead.
I crushed the paper in my hands and ground my teeth together. What was taking Don Francisco so long? I looked down at my mobile phone to see all of the buttons flashing in alarm. As a Cardinal, it would be my job to reassure the conservatives and keep a muzzle on the radicals. Octopi didn’t have enough arms to do that.
My secretary buzzed me.
“Your Eminence, it’s the Archbishop again.”
“I told you, already. The CDF does not get through to me. I need time to think.”
“Yes, Your Eminence. But as Prefect, you are the one who...”
“Are you telling me my job, brother?”
“No, Your Eminence.”
“I am in meetings. That is all.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
+++
I smiled as I read the headline. What a hornet’s nest I had stuck my ferula into. I could tell by Vicini’s face during my Wednesday morning audience that he was furious with me. So furious that he would hereafter leave me alone? That was unlikely. I am still the pope and men like Vicini cannot stay away from power for long. What other choice does he have than to dialogue with me? Even if only to talk me out of my plans.
A rap at my door. My secretary entered, bearing a cream envelope. I recognized Vicini’s crest and opened it eagerly. It was to the point. He wanted a private meeting at my convenience. I smiled at the last word; I could imagine Vicini saying it with acid in his mouth. I called his office and invited him to take coffee with me at eleven.
+++
“It is madness and you know it,” he sputtered.
“It is our only hope and you know it,” I riposted.
“Read the papers, Pope Leo, they predict a split in the Holy Church. If this happens, you will go down in infamy as the Pope who divided Rome! Even Luther could not say as much from his bed of suffering in Purgatory.”
“What would you do if you were Pope?” I asked, waving the meat in front of the bear.
“I would shore up the Church, not destroy her. I would concentrate on the many, many faithful priests who serve and ignore the tiny percentage who are unfit. I would not demoralize the many for the sins of a few. What sort of a message do you think you are sending your priests, forcing them all into counselling?”
“I cannot shore up a structure if I see that there is rot in the timbers, Vicini. Surely you can see that?”
“You do not have the freedom to be an idealist, your Holiness! Your task is to keep your Church whole.”
I lifted up my mug to give me time to consider his words; he hadn’t touched his espresso. The bitter taste seemed to clarify some things.
“The difference between you and me, Vicini? You would rather keep something cracked held together with a strong grip and pretend that it is whole. I would rather let it fall to pieces that something good can be built in its place. It is bitter and painful but ultimately the pain can usher in healing for our Church.” I spread out my hands to him in a gesture of pleading.
“I should never have lifted you from obscurity!” said Vicini bitterly. “You are unsuited to be Pope!”
“Probably,” I said, and I fled.
+++
I was walking through my private chapel by myself. How bright the sun was this morning! How blue the sky! It was as though April was taking a coffee break and July was filling in for her. Did I smell jasmine on the breeze? I looked down at the grass and it was all golden and dancing in the wind. I was surprised to see that I was walking barefoot. My feet glowed as though they were burnished copper. What unseasonable warmth! Was I dressed in a robe?
I heard singing in the distance, like all of Rome’s choirs singing all together. It was a Gloria unlike any that I’d ever heard before. I could feel tears filling my eyes and it felt like a huge load had been taken from my shoulders. I straightened my back from its usual slump and took a deep, deep breath. I began to run for the sheer joy of running. I flew through the tall grass.
A voice called out to me and I pulled up and turned around. It was Antonio, not the Antonio of the pursed lips and deeply etched frown, but a youthful Antonio, his face relaxed into a smile.
“Antonio? What are you doing here?”
“Where is ‘here’?” he said laughing. “I don’t think I was ever here before!”
“This isn’t Tuscany?”
He just laughed again and pointed at me. “You aren’t yourself, Holy Father!”
I touched my face where he was pointing and everything on it felt strange. I could feel no wrinkles, no wattles around my throat. That was when I really looked at Antonio. He was glowing like one of Caravaggio’s apostles. “You look like an angel, Antonio!” I gasped.
“Are we dead, Holy Father?” he asked. The thought struck me. Yes, that was it; we were dead. But piggybacking on that thought was another question.
“But why would we both be dead?” I asked. At this the beautiful Antonio almost blushed.
I understood perfectly. “You were tasting my food for poison!” He shrugged.
“It must have been a slow-working poison,” he admitted.
“And now we’re dead.”
“I don’t know about you, Your Holiness. But I’ve never felt more alive!”
And we ran together into the golden heights laughing like schoolboys.

+++The End+++

"A Witch By Any Other Name"

Once upon a time,there lived a ravishing maid named Clarice. Clarice fancied herself a real aristocrat, having been favoured with milky skin, shimmering black hair and lips the colour of rubies. It is possible that she may have been somewhat proud and disinclined toward a life of labour that her circumstanced demanded.
Clarice might have had all of the accouterments of aristocracy but the painful truth was that she was born the third daughter of a poor cobbler.
Now it would be nice to say that for all her poverty, the radiant beauty that Clarice had was matched by humility and inner loveliness but sadly that was not quite true, for Clarice was filled with self-importance, willfulness and self-centeredness just like a real aristocrat!
One day, when she should have been gathering wood for the fire like her hard-working sisters, Clarice was lollygagging by the stream and day-dreaming of a better life. Perhaps a prince would come by, fall deeply in love with her and take her to his castle to be his queen. Ah yes, a life of luxury and ease. Days filled with wine and roses, to say nothing of chocolate covered caviar!
While she was fantasizing, along came the Magician, Tim fabled in story and song. Tim was just starting out in the magician’s game, having apprenticed until recently with the powerful and deadly Monsieur Nightshade the Malevolent.
Tim was whistling a carefree tune and wondering how he would choose a place to set up his practice.
“Ahoy lackey!” cried out Clarice. “You wouldn’t happen to be a prince would you?”
Tim shrugged and decided to go along with her as a gag. “You may be very sure that I am,” he said, giving her a sweeping bow. “And you, my pretty biscuit, would you happen to be a princess?”
“Oh well, I suppose if you married me I would be,” she riposted cleverly.
“Why should I marry you?” asked Tim, curious to see what the maiden would say.
“You ask me why? Obviously, because I would make an extraordinary queen someday. Did you notice my flawless complexion, my raven tresses and full lips?”
“Oh, but my dear queen-in-waiting. What about a sovereign’s other attributes? Do you have a quick spirit, ready intelligence, compassion and perception?”
“What are those compared to radiant beauty and glowing skin?” asked Clarice haughtily.
“You make a strong case,” said Tim. “I will marry you, but first you must prove yourself to be worthy of my throne.”
“What must I do?” she asked. “Do you not see that I am worthy of your throne? Need I point out my flawless carriage, my alluring dimples and my sparkling teeth?”
“These are very appealing attributes,” said Tim. “But a queen must do more than look queenly, she must also act the part! Thus, you must prove yourself.”
“Oh very well,” sighed Clarice. “What must I do?”
Tim thought for a moment and then something delightful occurred to him: the girl needed a lesson and he needed a job!
“You must prove your intelligence and your creativity!” he announced. “You must dress yourself as an ugly, old woman and your disguise must be so convincing that not even your own mother would recognize you!”
“That doesn’t sound very queenly to me,” complained the maiden.
“Oh, I’m not finished yet,” said the magician. “You must convince the villagers that you are a witch!”
“A witch? But…”
“Don’t interrupt, you must convince the village that you intend to destroy them all.”
“But…”
“You do want to marry me, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, of course I do!”
“Then snap to it!”
Clarice snapped to it. She stole rags from the scarecrow in the cornfield, made her nose long and sharp with candlewax and and darkened her teeth with soot from an oil lantern. She ground her fingernails to a ragged edge and pushed her hair under a ragged scarf. When she was done, she had transformed herself into a filthy, horrid-looking hag.
“You must do something about your posture,” complained Tim. “You need to practice walking all stooped over!”
Finally, Tim gave her his seal of approval. “That will do very well. Now take this gnarled stick and go to the village. Tell them that you are Gruzella the Witch and that you have decided to put them all under a spell of suffering and anguish. Then cackle a bit and walk into the forest. If you can fool the village, I will know that I have found my bride.”
Gruzella, the pseudo-witch did as she had been instructed and the village was in a complete state of uproar when Tim strolled onto the scene.
“Good villagers, what troubles you?” he cried.
The village elders surrounded Tim and all began talking at the same time. They explained that a witch had taken it upon herself to curse them and what would they do now?
“You problem is really very easy to solve,” he said grandly. “You need a magician. It so happens that I am rather skilled in the dark arts and for a small consideration, I will submit my not trifling skills on your behalf against this foul witch!”
“You want gold?” asked one of the sharper elders.
“Not at all!” he responded. “I want the witch as a wife!”
“You must be mad!” said the elder. “Why would you want to marry a witch?”
“I am a magician. I need a wife who understands the stresses of supernatural living.”
“But why do you need our permission?” asked the stupefied elder.
“Do we have a deal?” said Tim, ignoring the inconvenient question.
“Yes! Yes!” cried all of the other villagers.
“Right then, I will need some certain magical substances to defuse this crisis,” he announced.
“You shall have whatever you need!” cried the villagers. This thought was most appealing to Tim and he rather let himself go a bit.
“First, I must have roast fowl, served with dumplings and bit of cheese, well aged but not too well aged! (It had been some time since his last good meal.) Also a bottle of red wine, but it doesn’t have to be a Grand Cru.”
“But that’s not magical!” protested the villagers.
“Who’s the magician here?” thundered Tim and all of them raced off to prepare his meal.
Meanwhile, the lovely Clarice was hiding in the forest until she had more instructions from Tim. Being a girl of spirit, she soon chafed at being left alone. She was used to the mooning stares of the village men and the jealous sniffs of their wives. She was not accustomed to being ignored.
“Where is he?” she wondered. “What’s taking him so long?” She was half tempted (perhaps even three-quarters) to just go back to the village without her disguise to see what was up. Once the thought occurred to her, it was well nigh impossible to ignore. Finally, after three minutes of inner debate, she rose, scrubbed off her disguise and stalked to the village. She would give the magician a generous serving of her mind!
When Clarice reached the village, she met her own sister Gertruda racing to fetch some cheese and breadsticks for Tim’s feast.
“What’s going on?” asked Clarice.
“Can’t stop to chat,” puffed then full-figured Gertruda, “Magical business!”
“What magical business?” shouted Clarice, but Gertruda was gone.
She stormed into the town centre to see Tim seated at a table, working his way through a roast duck.
“What’s going on?” she hissed.
“Patience, patience, my little princess,” mumbled Tim, wiping the grease from his moustache.
“I was patient half a day ago, now I’m ticked off,” she growled.
“Have some duck,” he said, noting how she looked pointedly at the carcass.
Just then the village cobbler, Clarice’s father, appeared on the scene.
“Clarice! What are you doing with our magician?”
“Nothing Father,” she said curtseying.
“Well, you best be off to help your mother with the dumplings!” he said. “You should not be disturbing our village’s savior,” and at this he tugged a soiled forelock and dragged her home.
Clarice wanted to shriek at her father and beat him with her fists, but the cobbler had a grip like iron and a short temper besides. Tim just smiled and went back to his duck.
The village gathered together watching Tim as he picked his teeth and belched.
“Don’t you need anything more magical than food?” asked the elder.
“A meal like that was magical!” said Tim grandly. “But yes, I need some specific things: a spool, a thimble, and some scarlet silk thread. Also, I will need a colander, an egg whisk and a white rabbit. It would be very helpful if you had two goose eggs and a cup of dandelion tisane.”
The villagers put their heads together and divided up the list among themselves while Tim sipped a glass of wine. If he played his cards right, it might take the villagers the rest of the day to gather his wish list!
Just then, Clarice hissed at him from a nearby bush. “I want to know your plan!”
“What are you doing in that bush?” asked Tim.
“Hiding, you fool! What do you think I’m doing?”
“Why are you hiding?” wondered Tim.
“Because my father will beat me if he catches me talking to you!”
“Well, never mind all that, you need to get your costume on in case I need to throw another scare into the village.”
“Now, wait a minute!” snarled Clarice. “I think I have fulfilled my half of the bargain. I have proven to you that I am resourceful and intelligent!”
“That you have, my dear,” said Tim in a placating tone. “But another appearance of Witch Gruzella will seal the deal! Off you go!”
Grumbling, she went back to the woods to resume her disguise. (And who could blame her? This was vexatious behavior indeed!) No sooner had she gotten all of her hideous make-up on then Clarice heard a savage voice.
“Ha!” said the savage voice, “Competition!” It was a terrifically unpleasant-looking old woman. Clarice was not the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer, but even she could tell that this old hag was a real witch.
“I am not your competition,” cried Clarice, falling on her knees before the real witch and hoping that she would not be turned into a newt.
“What do ye mean?” growled the real witch. “You’re a witch, ain’t ye?”
“Not at all!” said Clarice, averting her eyes. “I’m just dressed like one!”
“Why does a pretty gel like you want to dress like a Witch. Tis not Carnival, and sure, tis not Venice!” The Witch barked with dry laughter and hawked up a mass of rheumy phlegm.
“I’d better tell you the whole story,” said Clarice.
“Ye’d be wise to,” nodded the Witch.
When Clarice had finished her tale the Witch nodded and chuckled in a mean sort of way. “Yer not terrifically bright, er ye? Well, no mind, my child, I have a plan to will take your friend the prince down a few notches.” The Witch rubbed her knotty hands together cracking her knuckles and cackling, “Ha! That gives me a nasty ideer!”
And so say, the hideous hag transformed herself into the most beautiful maiden that the world would ever see. Her nose would have put Cleopatra’s to shame and as for her comely shape, the Greeks would have ignored Helen of Troy if she was around!
“Why you’re beautiful!” gasped Clarice.
“Ah ‘tis but surface, no?” said the Witch.
“But what are you going to do?” she asked.
“Come and watch!” suggested the Witch.
Clarice hid herself in the bushes and watched the Witch enter the village square. (It would not do for her father to find her out of the house being a busybody.)
Tim rose to his feet with a gasp of amazement. “My lady, you are very welcome here! But, if I may ask, why are you so far from the glorious courts of the Capital, for there in no doubt that you are a princess of a most profound noble house.
But the princess merely smiled. “Are you a worthy man?” she asked the magician.
“Well, I hate to brag, but I am fairly worthy. I am a powerful magician!”
“How thrilling for you!” said the princess in a delightful silvery voice. Tim blushed with pleasure and he had a strong inclination to impress her with his artistry.
“Look to that bird flying over the village green,” said Tim. He raised his left hand and spoke a loud spell. Suddenly the unlucky bird found itself vanish in a puff of smoke.
“Very impressive,” smiled the princess. “But destructive spells are so very simple and not very interesting.”
“Oh, I can construct as well, your majesty,” bowed Tim, a bit perturbed that his exploding bird bit went over so poorly. Tim picked up a smooth white pebble and rubbed it on his forehead while chanting a spell. He set down the rock and it quickly grew to the size of a small cottage.
The princess clapped her hands together and cried for delight. “What a wonderful spell. I do believe that I have found my soulmate!”
“You have?” grinned Tim, not believing his ears. “You want to marry me?”
“If you’ll have me,” simpered the princess.
“I will! Shall we travel to the Court and tell your father now?” asked Tim.
“I cannot wait!” declared the princess. “Let us summon the village priest and commit ourselves this very day!”
In the bushes, Clarice began (very slowly) to realize that her prince was nothing more than a shady magician. Well, he would get his comeuppance, marrying a hideous witch! Serve him right. But meanwhile, what about her? Would she ever find true happiness?
The princess and her magician quickly found the priest who agreed to pronounce the banns that very day.
It was a shocking honeymoon for poor Tim. But in time he learned to appreciate the witch’s magical skills and they became an excellent team. And every so often, for special dates, the Witch would again transform herself into the princess that so captured her husband’s dark heart.

Book Review of "The Unlikely Alchemist" by Brad Jersak.

Nearly two decades in the works, John Van Vloten’s The Unlikely Alchemist has finally hit bookshelves. In short, this is a very well written piece of children’s fantasy literature. Readers who watch for quality work in the genre of Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch and Wardrobe should be delighted.

The Unlikely Alchemist includes some essentials in Christian fantasy literature—a self-consistent alternate world, the mysterious means of arriving there, a fellowship-style quest and of course, strong character development in the child antiheroes and their seemingly unbeatable nemesis.

Happily, the book is also full of surprising and strange new creatures that take us beyond standard elf, dwarf and fairy remakes. Moreover, readers will feel invited to their own character growth as they track with the emotional and spiritual journey of Bartholomew, the main protagonist. The story provides a colorful venue for important childhood development themes as characters are led by an array of challenges and mentors from childish self-centeredness and sibling conflicts into self-giving love, redemption and reconciliation.

Van Vloten navigates the key risks of the genre superbly. Will the book be child-friendly and yet engaging for adult parents or teachers who enjoy reading to their youngsters? Can the author introduce encounters with God without blundering into the minefield of Evangelical kitsch? Does the story draw anything fresh from the well of this literary style? YES on all counts, in my opinion.

Beyond the typical solutions to fantasy crises (i.e. overcoming or rescue) or transformation (i.e. endurance or discovery), the author treats us to another possibility—transfiguration—an important element of Christian life that warrants rediscovery in the West. 2 Corinthians 3:18 came to mind, where Paul says, “And all of us, who behold the Lord’s glory with unveiled faces, are being (lit.) transfigured into his image with an ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.”

At the cosmetic level, The Unlikely Alchemist is hardbound with an attractive, full-colored cover (art by Pat Jaster), making it a family keeper and perfect gift book. Don’t wait for a cheaper paperback version (none forthcoming)—do watch for the next book in the trilogy, due out next year.