The White Plague (44 page)

The bacon was undercooked as usual, Father Dement noted. He scowled and ate it anyway. There might be no opportunity for lunch. Despite the pope’s bulk and that food-searching look in his eyes, the man seemed to exist on a minimal intake. Some wondered if the pope ate secretly in his room.

Pope Luke’s attention that morning had been focused by a report on the restoration of two Irish abbeys, occupied now by lay brothers who devoted themselves to producing illuminated manuscripts in the ancient fashion, on vellum and magnificent handmade linen paper. Thus far, no examples of this work had been seen outside Ireland, and the verbal content was known only sketchily. Reports had concentrated on “the artistic quality” and the label being applied to such works: “The Literature of Despair.”

“A renaissance of language,” one report had called these works, quoting one short passage:

“We have all three martyrdoms in generous proportions: the Green, the White and the Red. The Green, that’s the hermit’s life and the solitary contemplation of God. The White is separation from family, from friends and from home because there can be no family nor home without a wife. And what is friendship if it does not grow from the most intimate of all sharings? And the Red martyrdom, that is the oldest of them all: the giving of your life for the Faith.”

Father Dement thought privately that Ireland had always fallen back on words when all else failed.

The pope’s thoughts were more political, this being the native ground he understood best and the thing that he knew had worked most strongly to elevate him to his present eminence.

That and God’s Grace, of course.

It was a gift. He felt that he had been elevated as the Church’s most jealous guardian against schism. There were too many people in this world ready to sink into themselves, looking for mystic answers that the Church did not welcome. Holy Mother Church, the One and the Only, that was it. Mother Church. Pope Luke knew the problem this appellation raised in his plague-stricken world. When there were no women around, the title, Father, could take on cynical overtones. How could there be a Mother Church without Fathers? It aroused jealousies all dark and twisting in bereaved people. Pope Luke knew about the questionings.

“Tell me, Priest, how can you have a mother when I have none? How can you be called Father when I’ll never have that holy privilege?”

And there were always those who demanded: “Where were you, Priest, when the blow fell? Where was your God when this thing happened? Answer me that, if you’re able!”

Were these new abbeys in Ireland part of the new mysticism, spurred on by such questions?

Pope Luke was particularly disturbed by another passage from this new literature quoted by a commentator:

“Our young idealists lived too long in the rat-holes of conspiracy. They came to think of this as their natural habitat and they resisted anything that might bring them out of such an environment. But God has shown us the way out. Why will we not take it?”

What way? the pope wondered. The commentator had not said and the papal queries to Ireland were not being answered.

The pope arose presently and went down the hall to his bedroom where his robes had been laid out. He could hear the stirrings beyond his private quarters, all the trappings of the papacy being readied for another busy day. He longed for simpler times and often felt an active reluctance to leave a solitary station. Father Dement he tolerated because messages needed to be sent, words recorded and transmitted.

For his part, Father Dement dawdled over a fourth slice of toast generously spread with marmalade.
The Philadelphia papacy’s ovens produced a quite satisfactory loaf
, he thought. And there was no point in rushing through breakfast, no need to hurry after the pope and help him. This pope did things for himself, preferred it that way. His confessor complained that the pope rushed too swiftly through the holy necessities.

Why had the pope questioned the name given by the Irish to their illuminated manuscripts? After all of these months with Pope Luke, Father Dement found he still could be surprised by the man’s vagaries and twists of thought. Perhaps it had something to do with the ceremonies planned for this morning here in Philadelphia.

“We must find our happiness in God.”

Those were the pope’s words. Literature of Despair, that did cast a pall over things. But it need not enter this day’s activities.

In spite of every effort to stop him, the pope was moving ahead with steady determination toward the goal of the Philadelphia Pilgrimage. Some of the new cardinals, especially Cardinal Shaw, had raised objections, siding dangerously with President Velcourt and other leaders who pointed out the problems raised by the plague. Not only were large movements of people, many of them probably infected, frowned upon by governments, but isolated populations tended to react with independent violence against strangers and others trying to enter or pass through sanctuary regions.

Pope Luke remained adamant. Father Dement shook his head to correct himself. No, it was more a quiet persistence than anything else. It was as though God had spoken to him directly and the pope moved in the sureness of such support. That was, of course, a thing internal to the papacy. Father Dement knew that the old belief could not be denied. He shared that belief himself. A pope consecrated moved thereafter within the special aura of God’s concern. The unbroken line of holy succession – Christ to Peter to Pope Luke – carried an intrinsic promise of divine power and love. These very rooms here in Philadelphia, once part of the Church’s regional government, possessed now that sense of divine power which the pope’s presence assured.

Father Dement sopped up the last of his egg with a final bite of toast, drained his teacup and pushed himself away from the table, sighing. An acolyte housekeeper, his face properly subdued in holy awe, stepped from a doorway’s shadows where he had been hovering, glided forward and removed the dishes. Father Dement scowled. The young man was efficient, but it was not the same as the old days, not the same at all.

This pope refused to have female help in the Holy See, however. Were it not the pope himself evincing this behavior, Father Dement would have diagnosed it as pathological. Father Dement shuddered at the thought of the trouble he knew was coming. The pope had yet to say publicly what he said privately, but that could only be a matter of time, perhaps at the culmination of the first Pilgrimage… if that Pilgrimage were allowed to occur.

“God has visited His judgment upon women for a divine purpose. The sin of women has been held up to our view. We have been told clearly to remove that sin.”

Father Dement stood and squared his shoulders. The Red Martyrdom, as the Irish called it – that had always been an ultimate demand that the Church could make upon its people. Father Dement felt, though, that Pope Luke was inviting it. He was profoundly hostile to sexual union and no escaping that. He was antifemale. Father Dement dared to think it. The pope was listening too much to Father Malcolm Andrews, a Protestant minister who had joined the Church and risen to High Council.

Moving to the window where Pope Luke had sat, Father Dement looked out over the city. He sensed a pattern beginning to emerge – the Literature of Despair… the Irish trying to rebuild their old ways… Father Andrews and the antifemale movement gathering momentum around the pope… Only yesterday, Father Andrews had said: “The poets once said we lived, loved and went to the grave in the sureness of posterity. That has been taken from us. One mortal blow and we are bereft, our descendants cut off. Mankind lives now in the immediate presence of the grave. No one can deny the message of this event.”

And Pope Luke had nodded agreement.

Father Dement could hear the household gathering, the councillors, the cardinals, attendants. This day was about to have its official beginning. Sometime today, the pope would enter his private chapel and there pray for divine guidance. Only a handful of those around the pope, Father Dement among them, knew the nature of the crisis for which the pope would seek divine guidance. The argument between Pope Luke and President Velcourt had been going on for some time now but last night’s call from Huls Anders Bergen, secretary-general of the United Nations, had raised the issue to a new intensity. Father Dement, as usual, had listened on an extension telephone, making notes for Pope Luke’s later review.

“I do not believe Your Holiness understands what the President is prepared to do should you defy him,” Bergen had said.

Pope Luke had replied in a mild voice: “One does not defy God.”

“Your Holiness, President Velcourt does not view the issue in quite that light. The President, with the backing of other world leaders, makes a distinction between the political papacy and the religious papacy.”

“There can be no such distinction, sir!”

“I fear, Your Holiness, that in this new political climate there can be and there is such a distinction. The President’s viewpoint, unfortunately, is the popular one. He has the political backing to take violent action should he so choose.”

“What violent action?”

“I hesitate to…”

“Don’t hesitate, sir! Has he intimated what he might do?”

“Not specifically, Your Holiness.”

“But you suspect something.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“Out with it, sir!”

While he made his notes, Father Dement thought he had never heard such firmness and purposeful command in the pope’s voice. Father Dement had never been more proud of Pope Luke than in that moment.

“Your Holiness,” Bergen said, “it is quite possible that the President will order a missile dropped on you.”

Father Dement gasped. His hand slipped down the pen, creating a scrawl on his note pad. He recovered quickly and made sure he had the words correctly. This would take close review.

“He has said this?” the pope asked.

“Not in so many words, but…”

“But you have no doubt he might react that way?”

“It is one of his options, Your Holiness.”

“Why?”

“There is rising clamor against your Pilgrimage, Your Holiness. People fear it. The President will react politically if you force his hand.”

“A missile is a political reaction?”

Father Dement thought this response by the pope rather uninformed, but perhaps it was only the famous “Holy Naivete.”

“President Velcourt is being petitioned to stop you, Your Holiness,” Bergen said. “It has been suggested that the Philadelphia Military Command move in and make you a prisoner.”

“My Guard would not permit that, sir.”

“Your Holiness, let us be realistic. Your Guard could not hold out for five minutes.”

“The Church has never been stronger than it is today! People would protest.”

“The mood in Philadelphia, Your Holiness, is not universally shared. That is what makes a missile solution so likely, in my view. There is a finality about it against which there could be no argument.”

“Did the President ask you to call me, sir?”

“He asked me to reason with you, Your Holiness.”

“You are deeply concerned?”

“I confess that I am. Although I do not share your religion, you are a fellow human being and every one of these is precious to me.”

Father Dement thought he heard true sincerity in the secretary-general’s voice. Apparently the pope heard this, too, because there was real emotion in his reply.

“I shall pray for you, Mister Bergen.”

“Thank you, Your Holiness. And what may I tell President Velcourt… and the others concerned?”

“You may tell them that I will pray for divine guidance.”

God of mercy! God of peace!
Make this mad confusion cease!

– Dr. William Drennan, “The Wake of William Orr”

I
T WAS
dusk outside the White House, that strange Washington dusk which lingered and lingered, blending finally into the brilliant lights of the Capitol’s night.

President Velcourt, looking out at the dusk and the lights coming on, thought he had never before been this tired. He wondered if he had the energy to get up from his chair and go to the cot he’d had moved here into the Oval Office. But he knew if he once put his head on the pillow, necessities would flood his mind. Sleep would not come – only the fatigue and the heart-draining need for action.

What a day this had been!

It had started with Turkwood storming into the office, his expression black, to slide the morning report onto the President’s desk. Sometimes, Velcourt wondered at the advisability of inheriting Turkwood from Prescott. There were occasions when you needed someone who would do the dirty work, but Turkwood seemed tainted, perhaps untrustworthy.

As Turkwood had started to leave, Velcourt had asked: “What’s wrong with you?”

“I just had to fire someone in communications.” Again, Turkwood moved to leave.

“Wait a minute. Why did you fire someone?”

“It’s not your problem, sir.”

“Everything here’s my problem. Why’d you fire this person?”

“He was using the White House channels to talk to friends in the Mendocino Reserve.”

“How the devil could he do that?”

“He got at the satellite code somehow and was just… well, rerouting to his friends.”

“I thought that was impossible.”

“Apparently not. We’re questioning him right now to find out how he did it. He says he just worked it out.”

“What’s his name, Charlie?”

Velcourt felt his pulse quickening. A resourceful and independent mind right here in the White House.

“His name? It’s ahhh, David Archer.”

“Get him in here, Charlie! I want him here sooner than instanter.”

Turkwood knew that tone. He ran out of the office.

David Archer was a pale young man with acne-scarred features and a hunted expression. His movement into Velcourt’s office could only be described as slinking. Turkwood, wearing a grim expression, was right behind him.

Velcourt put on his most affable expression, his warmest tone of voice. “Sit down, David. Is that what they call you? David?”