“Catholics around the world were shocked when Pope Benedict XVI announced that he will resign for the good of the Church…”
Ava commanded the room to hush as the report continued.
“Thousands gathered in St. Peter’s Basilica to attend the pope’s Ash Wednesday service. The crowd gave Benedict a standing ovation. Many in the throng had tears in their eyes. Some observers waved papal flags, others lifted a huge banner reading grazie santita. Speaking softly in Italian, Benedict asked that the faithful ‘continue to pray for me, the Church, and the future pope.’ A chorus of schoolchildren sang in German. Benedict, who is Bavarian, thanked them for singing a hymn ‘particularly dear to me.’ He is the first pope to resign since Gregory XII, in 1415…”
Ava shook her head. She turned from the television, came to the table, slid into a chair, and whipped out her iPhone. Jess saw that her companion was annoyed.
“What is it?”
“It wasn’t…” Ava inhaled deeply, paused for a beat, continued. “CNN just compared Benedict’s resignation to that of Gregory XII. The comparison isn’t valid. The circumstances are different. Gregory refused to resign unless the antipopes—”
“Antipopes?”
“After the Great Western Schism, three men claimed to head the Church: Gregory XII in Rome, Benedict XIII in Avignon, and John XXIII in Pisa. Five years of chaos convinced Church leaders to hold the Council of Constance, which strongly suggested that all three popes resign. When Benedict refused, the council excommunicated him. John and Gregory both stepped down to become cardinals, but it wasn’t an entirely voluntary move.”
Jess nodded. Ava was Googling. She found a more historically precise article and read it aloud.
“Italian newspapers have lauded Benedict’s shocking, unprecedented decision. ‘We’ve entered uncharted territory,’ remarked La Repubblica’s editor in chief, Ezio Mauro. In March, cardinals will convene to elect a new pope. Regardless of who next wears the Piscatory Ring, Benedict will enjoy a life of quiet prayer in a monastery on the Vatican gardens’ far northern edge. His final papal acts will be audiences with key world leaders. Benedict has already agreed to see prominent politicians from Romania, Guatemala, Slovakia, San Marino, Andorra, his native Bavaria, and Italy. Many more requests are expected. The influential G8 has invited His Holiness to address its annual conference.
“While most Catholics praised the pope’s decision, others fear the unexpected news validates an ancient prophecy that Benedict XVI will be the last good pope, that ‘the seven-hilled city will be destroyed,’ and that these events signal the end of the world. Such dire forecasts are found in the Prophecy of the Popes, a collection of cryptic Latin phrases attributed to Máel Máedóc Ua Morgair…”
Ava rolled her eyes and closed her phone.
Jess laughed. “Wow. That last bit is something Bagelton would enjoy.”
“I know. Can you believe that guy?”
“He really got under your skin, didn’t he?”
“No. As much as I disagree with Bagelton, I’m really furious with our classmates. They should have laughed him out of the building. Why do we tolerate pseudoscholarship? Success eludes responsible, legitimate writers who never plagiarize, monkey with facts, or exaggerate findings. Meanwhile, garbage like Bagelton’s book sells a million copies.”
“Are you surprised? People love myths. We invest in fantasies to make existence feel — what’s the right word? Richer? More rewarding? Humdrum lives of quiet desperation take on meaning when they’re populated by exciting supernatural beings and apocalyptic events.”
“Does that make it rational to believe in the Roswell aliens? In Bigfoot?”
“Maybe not rational, but comforting. Lonely, frightened individuals form a community around their creed — any creed. Accepting and defending the existence of flying saucers, ghosts, angels, or Sasquatch helps certain people get along. Call it rational irrationality.”
“If people need an emotional crutch that’s fine, but it’s still a delusion. No logical person believes things without evidence. Jess, I’m not demanding irrefutable scientific proof. There’s not even a scintilla of evidence. Nil! Do these credulous saps believe a mad fairy zips from pillow to pillow collecting teeth?”
“Some probably do.”
Ava laughed. “Okay. Good point. What did Mencken say? ‘You’ll never go broke underestimating the public.’ People were convinced the world would end in 2012, and in 1844, and in the year 1000. I’d like to think humanity has advanced since the medieval era, but given the prevalence of superstition and magical thinking, I should probably be grateful no one wants to burn us as witches.”
Jess grinned. “So you don’t buy any of that stuff? Never check your horoscope?”
“No. No astrology. No conspiracy theories. No mysticism. I believe in scientific fact. Humans apprehend truth through rigorous experiment and analysis. Suggestions to the contrary are soft-minded nonsense or snake-oil scams.”
“That sounds like your father talking.”
It did. Richard Fischer was a paragon of scientific integrity. An atmospheric chemist at NASA, he’d been pressured by two administrations to revise data on how chlorofluorocarbons — CFCs — destroy ozone in the presence of high-frequency ultraviolet light. Both times he’d refused, obliterating his prospects for advancement. Yet he’d become a hero in Ava’s eyes. She smiled, thinking of her father, and wondered how her parents would react if she went to Yemen.
Sipping a spoonful of savory broth, Ava had a brainstorm. “Hey, I’m going to read you a message. Tell me if you know what it means: ‘Something sought in a historic hat bag has been found.’”
Jess frowned. She mouthed each word, reflected a moment, then replied, “I’ve no earthly idea. What is it?”
“I don’t know. It came this morning — supposed to be a riddle.”
“A guy sent it, right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Only a person who never shops would say ‘hat bag.’ Hats come in boxes.”
Ava’s eyes widened, and for a second she looked dazed. She fell back in her seat.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m perfect,” Ava replied, tossing her napkin onto the table. “Could you cover a few of my classes next week?”
Back at Lowell House, Ava climbed the stairs and let herself inside with the key that Gabe insisted she have. Dropping onto the ratty couch, she borrowed Gabe’s iPad and wrote H-A-T-B-A-G on the touchscreen. Then, she rearranged those six letters into “T-A-B-G-H-A.” A search under that spelling revealed dozens of websites. She picked one at random.
Historic Tabgha, a city lost for centuries, was the setting for Christ’s calling of the disciples. Here Jesus walked the shore and hailed Simon, Peter, and Andrew, three fishermen casting nets into the lake. Tabgha was rumored to be the hiding place of the legendary lost jars of Cana.
“What are the lost jars of Cana?” asked Gabe, biting into an Oreo.
“Just Google it,” Ava said. “There’s an entry on Wikipedia.”
“Yeah, but you probably wrote it.”
Ava sipped her chai and smiled. “No, although I suspect I know who did. It contains a few historical errors and is confused regarding—”
“Just tell me!”
“Tell you what? The legend?”
“No. Tell me how you can drink that foul brew. You added, what, six Splendas?”
She grinned. “I like it that way.”
“Gross,” muttered Gabe. “I don’t know how you stand it. Now please relate the legend of the lost jars.”
“I’ll tell you what I remember. In undergrad I was studying for Professor Cusanus’s final. Her lectures referenced several biblical legends, things like the Holy Grail, the Spear of Destiny—”