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Golden light poured through high ornate windows that seemed to grow from the floor. It was the fading light of evening, like honey on the woods and furnishings.
Heavy drapes of crimson velvet cascaded around the panes, pooling on the polished wood flooring like blood.
A magnificent bed rested at the center of the vast room, away from the richly decorated and paneled walls. Each of its four posters was carved to depict cherubs and angels wrestling with demons and fallen brothers. Roiling clouds spun in and out between the battling figures, consuming the defeated along the head- and footboards and rising upward to four triumphant and favored winged Children of God.
Large, full pillows covered in crisp white cases lay at the head of the bed. White linen dressed the soft mattress beneath a deep down comforter that was cased in crushed red velvet. The same velvet curtained the bed along and between the posters. It was an inviting and luxurious bed that, like many other things in that place, scorned poverty.
A mahogany desk occupied a corner of the room. It was a place where troubles were left, awaiting the discretion of the man at the window. A file lay open on its lacquered surface.
There was a woman in Michigan, in the United States, who had been catatonic for three years. Her remarkable "awakening" had occurred more than five years ago, but the woman's mental health must have remained questionable, as she was still detained as a patient of the hospital. Coincidentally, she had awakened on the very day of Pius's coronation. Her eyes had fluttered open at the very moment the tall white miter was placed on his head, at the Mass following the 89th Conclave which had elected him Pope.
Pius XIII was the picture of holiness as he stood in plain white cotton garments, bathed in the light of the setting sun. He was pondering the contents of that file. He was savoring the decision that lay before him. It would be the first step toward the rebirth of his beloved Church.
He began his quest early in his tenure by establishing the Knights of the Holy Cross. He recruited young soldiers from around the world, wherever the Church had influence. Each young man was hand picked by the Pope to be his personal guard, his army. They were his messengers and his right hand. No one but the Pope, himself, commanded the Knights and the vow made by each one required the renouncement of country and citizenship, of personal ambition, and of marriage. They were given further training under the direction of hired mercenaries so that no other force was as capable and effective as Pius' Holy Guard.
They were made knights in the old way and were given a sizeable stipend against retirement, injury, or death. Pius had seen to every luxury and paid them from his own hand, from his own secret and carefully managed funds. The Knights of the Holy Cross were absolutely loyal to their Pope. Any dissension from the ranks of the Church was dealt with according to the Pope's command, swiftly and without question.
It had taken three years to develop his Holy Guard of one hundred fifty Knights, and an additional year to complete the necessary task of weeding and reorganizing the Church. Now, his real work could begin. With that file on the desk.
The woman was a young widow who had delivered a stillborn child prior to her institutionalization. Now, upon her somewhat slanted recovery, she claimed to have seen Heaven. No, not just to have seen it. Rather, to have been there and met with God. As though her tale about Heaven were not enough, the woman's assertions of her relationship with God--while allegedly in Heaven--were the worst kinds of blasphemy. In contrast, there had been rumors of miracles. The presiding Archdiocese had sent a petition to the Vatican following their own inquiry. Pius carefully selected the team of clergy-scientists sent to root out the truth and expose the fraud. He had their reports, along with dozens of similar findings from the scientific and medical communities. Pius had all the information he needed to stop this latest threat to his Flock, to the Church.
He stood now at the window, waiting for one of his Knights to attend him. There was no knock and only the age of the tall wooden door gave the man away with a low creak. The Knight was immediately at the Pope's elbow.
"My Lord?" he said reverently.
"We have sent Chiudo."
"To negotiate for her release, my Lord? Shall I go with my Brothers to collect her?"
"You will collect her. A small party. Swift and silent. You will, of course, have everything you require for the task. But there will be no negotiation."
"And the Bishop?"
"Chiudo goes ahead of you. He knows the hospital administrator. He is the perfect decoy," Pius said softly.
"And when we return, my Lord?"
"Show her to the Tower of St. John. It will be her permanent residence. Set a guard from the Duchesses and two or three more to attend her. No one must know she is here. She is a cancer that is to be removed from the world before she can do anymore harm. Perhaps the Jesuits can convince her of her error and restore her to the Light. Or perhaps we, ourselves, might personally see to her...salvation."
"Yes, my Lord," the young Knight said and turned to leave.
"Bring us the tapes and the files. And see that Chiudo does not return. He was once very close to the administrator and may reveal too much of what little he knows. Or thinks he knows. We leave the matter to you, to execute as you see fit."
The Knight disappeared without a sound, and the Pope was left once more with his thoughts.
Many of the things within the Apostolic Palace were from an Age long past: an Age whispered of in the high tongues of kings and in the common speech of peasants, whispered from the dry tomes that filled some secret place beneath the city. The dust of those pages clouded the air as the dust of the words clouded the minds that poured over them, searching for some hidden meaning, concealing Truth without feeling, preserving an institution as dusty and decadent as those bindings and paper and ink.
While those books could speak of long ago, the windows of the Palace had seen those times. The walls had boarded pilgrims and princes, sheltered countless holy men and women, and many who were not so holy. Now the walls herd and the windows watched a world unknowingly on the edge of change.
"Helen's Garden" Copyright Terri Long 2001
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