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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781452093024 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 220 |
| File size: | 627 KB |
Read an Excerpt
The Last Days
The ChristeningBy Osbourne Griffith
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Osbourne GriffithAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-9304-8
Chapter One
New York is a great city in which to live, but sometimes the weather can be unbearable, like today. It was late July, hot and humid with a heat index of 112 degrees. Arch Bishop Andrew sat at his desk and watched sullenly as the mercury inched its way up the thermometer. His mind flashed back to 1999 when it had registered a searing 102 degrees. That month he had lost seven parishioners during the ensuing heat wave and he dreaded another one. The mercury wavered and dropped one point to 96 and he breathed a sigh of relief. A listless wind blew from the north-east over Hogan's Hill at 5knots driving the heat into the plains below. His office was in a single storied building surrounded by tall trees and thick foliage. On any other day they acted as a buffer against the common noises and kept the area cool and shaded, but today they trapped the heat multiplying his distress. The air-conditioned unit on the wall had stopped working and the promised technician had not arrived as expected. In the interim he had employed two standing fans which ran noisily from adjacent corners of his office, but they did little to alleviate his discomfort. He got up wearily from behind the desk and paced the small office thoughtfully. On the west wall there were five large portraits; four were of Bishops who had served in a similar capacity. The other portrait was slightly bigger and elevated exactly two feet higher than the others. He ran his stubby fingers over it admiring the texture of the canvas and the serene look fixed on the face of the current Pontiff. The wall adjacent to it had a large map of New York stuck to it with green pins to identify the location of all the dioceses in the state, and then there were the red pins which caused him much distress.He seemed to tire of the monotony and walked slowly over to the window overlooking the flower garden. He pushed it open and a blast of hot air ran into his chest and he winced. Yellow-brown leaves devoid of life spiraled to the parched grounds like stained confetti. There were new green buds on the semi—naked trees, but these too seemed to be losing the fight against the sweltering heat. It was two weeks since the last rains fell which had done little to quench the thirsty earth. Clasping his hands behind his back, he stared out into the distance. A few white fluffy clouds floated lazily to the west and he watched them until they were out of sight. The sunlight reflected harshly from the galvanized roof of the tool shed and he shifted his position to avoid the blinding glare. He sighed, and rested his hand on the window, it was hot to the touch and dirty too. He would draw this situation to Beatrice, his helper.
He seemed to be under a spell, oblivious to the shimmering beauty around him. The gardener, a rather tall gangly man who doubled as deacon on Sundays was busy raking the fallen leaves. He looked up at the clouds as their shadows moved slowly across the garden creating unusual shapes. The gardener saw him and raised his hand in greeting.
"Good morning, Bishop."
"Good morning, Simon. How's the family?"
"They are fine, Sir. Remember Paul, he's my oldest son; He was selected to play on the baseball team two days ago. I'm very proud of him. I think he will make the Major League."
"He's a great kid and I'm happy for you, but what about Martha? I did not see her at mass last Sunday."
"I'm so sorry Father, I meant to tell you, but it completely slipped my mind. She had a terrible cold and was laid up in bed for a few days, but she is alright now." He paused and mopped his brow. "I think it is going to be a scorcher today sir."
"Yes, if we take the word of the weather forecaster, it is going to get a lot worse before it gets better."
Andrews raised his hand as if to end the conversation and Simon returned to his chores. He was not dreaming after all. After a few more minutes of overlooking the parched landscape he closed the window and returned to his desk.
He was a big heavy-set man just two weeks shy of his sixty seventh birthdays, but he carried himself well. His hair was as white as last winter's snow. But for a little arthritis in his left hand, which pained him from time to time, he was in good health. Pope John v. saw his potential and elevated him to Arch Bishop in 1996. He was one of the few leaders whose reputation was not sullied by the disgraceful sexual scandal that rocked the Roman Catholic Church at beginning of the twenty-first century.
In fact, it was out of that same scandal that he rose to prominence to become the Accessor to the secretary of 'The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith". His mission at present was to oversee the Catholic Church in the eastern sector of the Americas during this dark era. The restoration and the survival of the church to its place of moral standing was his ultimate goal. It was a demanding job with ungrateful hours and few tangible rewards.
His investigation in the most recent past had shown that the scourge had begun to raise its ugly head again right under his nose. He was devastated and had ordered an investigation. He knew on this occasion that the church must act decisively. This is his recommendation.
It was Monday the 27th of July 2007. He had eaten a light breakfast of pancakes with a liberal spread of honey, sausages, and a glass of orange juice.
He entered his office at exactly 10:30 am as was his custom. His assistant, Virgil, had arranged his mail in a neat pile on the right hand side of his desk—a pile that kept getting bigger and bigger each month. He sat down heavily for he had been up late the night before.
He went through the pile methodically, scribbling notes hurriedly onto to a white notepad. It was the usual fare; private donations from parishioners and wealthy benefactors and request from members of the clergy for transfers or leave. He had read seven letters when he stopped suddenly.
He stared at the next envelope with the kind of detached consciousness that he reserved for errant parishioners. Turning it over slowly between his chubby fingers, he smelled it, and then placed it gently on the desk in front of him. To say that he was ecstatic would be an understatement, yet he showed no outward emotion. There was no doubt that the letter was authentic and had originated from within the hallowed halls of the Vatican.
He had worked hard and by age 52 had reached the post of Archbishop. Until recently he had never received any correspondence from Rome. This had to be done right. He opened it cautiously, taking great care not to damage the Vatican seal. It would be his souvenir, one for future reference.
The letter was hand written—short and to the point. He read it slowly pondering the significance of the language used; not English or Italian or German the native language of the current Pope, but Latin; a language that had been dead for centuries. His intellect became aroused.
The significance of the language was not lost on him. He knew that for all important liturgies and mass that Latin was still the preferred language. His heart raced for a while before settling into its customary rhythm.
"His Excellency has recognized your exceptional loyalty and honesty and your adherence to the higher principles of the church and request your presence on...." His Latin was very good, yet he read slowly savoring each word, searching for any hidden messages. He found none. He skipped the date and his eyes darted to the last line. "Be sure to bring this letter with you." He read it over twice, before returning it to the envelope. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair. He had seven days to prepare for the trip, but first he had to show humility. He knelt and prayed silently. That same day he chose the suitcase he would take, placing the letter at the bottom of it.
* * *
Bishop Andrew arrived at the Vatican at precisely 11:36 a.m. When he entered the Pope Paul V Hall, he was met by Cardinal Goring, a frail-looking old man who walked with a slightly bent back. He greeted him softly in English, but his accent was distinctly German.
"Come this way, Arch Bishop," he beckoned to him using his left hand. He walked purposefully ahead of the Arch Bishop, his suede soles making soft squishy sounds on the marble floor.
He was awed by the sheer brilliance of what he saw—the huge marble pillars, the vastness of the rooms, and the ornate decorations. A gold-laid fountain spewed water into the air to cascade down a small man-made waterfall. He was led into a much smaller room, which he found out later was the Pope's private office.
He was there seated, dressed in his white cassock, wearing his miter like a crown. He acknowledged his presence, but didn't move. Arch Bishop Andrew walked briskly to him and knelt, and kissed the ring on the hand that was extended to him.
His hand was soft to the touch and smelled of incense. He felt at peace with himself and a child-like innocence surged through him.
"Did you have a good trip, Arch Bishop?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"Please sit. As you would appreciate, Arch Bishop, it is not possible to know everyone in the church even at your level, so we depend on committees or such formal entities to inform us when the occasion arises. You have been recommended by your peers as being strong, sincere, and loyal to the Church. Was I well-informed?"
"I have always put the Church above all else, your Excellency, it is the lifeblood of civilization."
"I most humbly agree with you, Arch Bishop, and so I will entreat you to join me in a very noble cause— one that must be held close to the bosom of as few persons as possible. If you are willing to undertake this task, I will continue this audience with you."
He was surprised by the stateliness of his voice. It was soft, barely audible. He had to lean forward to hear him clearly. It was not like the far-reaching electronic sound of the microphone as he prayed for millions throughout the Catholic world. He answered promptly.
"Yes, I will accept, Your Excellency."
He started to speak again. "Very well, Arch Bishop as you would have realized of late in our sphere there have been numerous tumultuous happenings—floods, earthquakes, tsunami, and acts of genocide. These occurrences filled me with deep sorrow and I have prayed endlessly. Signs have been revealed to me that troubles me deeply. Some sinister forces seem to be exerting undue influence on the earth as we know it. Your task is to find out if these occurrences are arbitrary or intended measures of a more ominous nature."
"The beginning of the apocalypse, sir?"
He didn't answer, he wasn't sure if he had heard the question. Maybe he had only formed the thought in his head. He continued, but his voice remained soft, measured not relaying the concern that he felt beneath his impeccable calmness.
"The orchestration of these events could be prejudiced towards a more chaotic and capricious tragedy. I can feel the evil; it is knocking at our doorstep. Use whatever resources the church has at her disposal, but be cautious to whom you turn for help."
He paused.
"You are to report to no one, but Cardinal Goring."
He looked him in his eyes, which were soft, easy, reassuring—like butterflies landing on a sunflower after a long flight.
"I will place all of my energies into it immediately, Your Excellency"
"May all our blessings be with you."
He nodded and Cardinal Goring, who had waited at the door patiently, approached them. He stood up, took two steps backward before he bowed and was led away. When he reached the door, he looked back to see the Pope with his hands clasped close to his chest. He was praying silently. As he walked down the steps, he felt drained emotionally.
Chapter Two
It was the first Friday night after Ash Wednesday and Michael was making his long trek home. He had spent the evening with his girlfriend and had stopped by the small arcade in Nanuet. The street was deserted, but for the occasional sighting of a stray dog that wandered in and out of the brushes. The light from the street lamps glowed dimly overhead, and the nightlife encircled it, casting eerie shadows on the street below. He looked up as the moon struggled valiantly to free itself from the embrace of the dark clouds that blocked its path, threatening to impede its journey across the starless sky. These images only seemed to compound the gloomy situation in which he found himself. He walked slowly, unsure whether to continue or not, but in reality, he had no choice. Guilt accompanied him like a shadow and he was remorseful, but his thoughts were still heavy with crude images of punishment.He looked back casually into the darkness and saw the faintest of movements to his left as the dog disappeared into the shadows. He felt uneasy and quickened his pace until he reached the steps leading to his home. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched the eyes glowed brightly in the darkness.
His parents' house was small, consisting of two bedrooms, a living and dinning room, a small kitchen, and an even smaller bathroom, which took up the space on the ground floor. It could do with a new coat of paint both inside and outside, and the lawn needed cutting. The trees in the back grew thick and were covered with wild vine. The basement was mostly damp and the little dry space was used for storage; usually antique items owned by Tom, his step-father
An old rickety picket fence enclosed the remaining property. He stepped around the gate which had fallen off about four or five months earlier and laid rotting on the damp ground. A solitary light burned dimly in his parents' bedroom. The sound from the television penetrated the flimsy walls, and he tried to ignore the sounds coming from the X-rated movie. He waited a few minutes and knocked. The volume on the television set was lowered, and he heard footsteps approaching the door.
"Who is it?" his mother asked. She was annoyed.
"Mom, it's me, Michael." he answered softly. During the silence that followed he could hear the grand-father's clock.
"Tick, tock, tick tock." He pictured it standing majestically in the corner with its pendulum swinging like a big penis, sending its calculated tones relentlessly. The irritating 'Tick tock,' had kept him up at nights and he had grown to hate it. Despite his current concerns, he would like nothing better than to silence it ... permanently.
His mother opened the louvers and peered out at him, hiding her seminude body behind the flimsy curtain. She obviously was not expecting him. "What are you doing here?" she asked just loud enough for him to hear.
"Mom, it's me," he repeated stupidly.
"I know who it is, you idiot," she said, raising her voice a few decibels. "You think I don't recognize you?"
"Let me in then," he said meekly.
"Are you crazy, Mickey; after what you did to Tom? You beat the shit out of him; then left him in the road helpless. He could have died."
"But Mom, he hit me first," he said interrupting her. He didn't want to be reminded about the specifics of the incident that had occurred earlier that evening.
She was usually brusque with him since he dropped out of college, but tonight she was at her insidious worse. Maybe, he thought she had a few glasses of wine too much for he had detected the distinctive smell of alcohol.
"So he hit you first?" she responded, avoiding his stare, "and that give you the right to beat him to a pulp? Did you know that I had to beg him not to call the cops? Of course, you didn't," she said rhetorically. "They would have arrested you and thrown your ass in jail. I love you, Mickey, but this is his house and I can't go against him this time. I'm sorry, but I can't let you in."
"Betty," Tom's weak voice inquired from the safety of the bedroom. "Who is it?"
"Give me a minute Tom," she answered quickly averting Michael's gaze. "Look Mickey," she said lowering her voice to a whisper, "I've put some clothes in a duffel—bag and left it on the back porch. Take it and go now before he finds out that you are here and changes his mind."
"Mom, you know I don't have any where to go."
She was whispering softly, but authoritatively. He had seen her like this before, and his heart sank. She had made up her mind, whatever came now was final. He braced himself.
"I can't help you anymore Michael; you brought this on yourself. Here, take this, it is fifty dollar; use it to pay a taxi to Pelham and then take the subway to Peggy. Tell her everything and ask her to call me."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Last Days by Osbourne Griffith Copyright © 2011 by Osbourne Griffith. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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