Felix looked at the man and smiled thinly before looking away.
“I was just thinking… It’s never going to end, is it?”
The man was silent. What could he answer?
For, of course, it would not end. Not for this planet. It would end for this brave young soul seated beside him. But not well. This is one of the great tragedies.
For the man had come to love this Felix. He loved “dealing” with him. The Supreme Pontiff was unaccustomed to having to “deal” with anyone, save heads of state. He had enjoyed it immensely.
Felix had gotten everything he wanted. One dozen priests, recruited from all over the world, all strong, all brave, all devoted. He had gotten the bishop he had demanded, an American-born bishop, who even now waited for them in Brazil, where the Team would first train for a month.
There was a happy peal of laughter and both turned to the source.
Several of the sisters had come to see the young bride’s ring. It was hardly in keeping with the poverty vows, of course, but the Man believed every single sister in Rome had managed to come and view it at least once.
How lovely she is, thought the Man, seeing her proud display.
There was another peal of laughter, and then a wicked squeal, as the other young American, the one called Cat, made a comment the two men seated could not hear.
No doubt something off-color once again, thought the Man.
But even in this he was glad, for this one had been such a thin and shallow scarecrow of a soul when first he had arrived, uncertain, unbelieving — suspicious of all save his leader.
But now look at him! How he smiles and jokes and how devoted are he and Davette! Hard to believe they were not brother and sister.
The Man glanced again at Felix, who was still watching the show.
He was right not to tell his friend about Jack.
He was right about much. Though foolish.
“Thanks for the ring,” said Felix suddenly, almost shyly.
The Man nodded. It was an ancient stone, three hundred years in the Vatican treasury being dusted. Now it shone on a bride’s finger, as it should.
“And thanks,” added Felix, with more than a little embarrassment, “for marrying us.”
The Man smiled. “It was our pleasure,” he said sincerely.
And it truly had been. His aides had not understood his enjoyment, for Felix had, at the last second, refused to be converted to the Church. To everyone’s amazement, the Man had waived the requirement and had performed the ceremony personally.
He had, he must admit, found it terribly amusing, this young American’s stubborn “point of honor.” And he would smile whenever he thought of it.
What was that American phrase? Like being “a little bit pregnant"?
For the young warrior was converted. He simply refused to admit it.
An aide appeared at the edge of a terrace door, eyeing him expectantly. The Man knew what he wanted, to remind him of his scheduled duties for that day. But the Man did not wish to go until the others did. This was their last day, their last hours, in his personal care. And…
And do I fear I will never see them again? Or do I fear my own sense of guilt when they go?
But no. He could not help them more. He could not shout from the rooftops their plight. He could not tell the world what he — and they, and the victims — knew to be so.
Neither could he explain it to the young warrior. He had tried, telling him of the long, hard journey of the Mother Church, of the awful tragedy if they should return, or even be perceived to be returning, to those dark, Dark Ages.
For there were not many vampires. There were not. And soon, with the power of world knowledge, there would be none. And that would, as the young warrior had insisted, be a great goodness.
But what then? When every priest felt emboldened and empowered to see evil everywhere? To think nothing of the witch hunts of other authorities, once the boundaries of law had been “temporarily” lifted.
The Man prayed and grieved every night for the victims of the Beast.
He did not wish to pray and grieve for the excesses of man unwittingly doing the Beast’s business for him.
He had tried to convey some of this. But the young warrior’s ears been deaf. “Scapegoat” and “guinea pig” had been his bitter terms.
And, of course, he was right.
But I am right, too, am I not, Lord?
Please, then, help me bear the loss of this brave one!
“When do you leave, my son?” the Man asked.
Felix shrugged and stood up. “As soon as your man comes. What is his name?”
“Father Francisco.”
“Yeah. Right.”
As if in answer, Father Francisco suddenly appeared, rushing out onto the terrace, bowing to kiss the Man’s ring, then breathlessly explaining his tardiness.
The Man assured him all was well. Felix did the same, shaking his hand. The young priest seemed relieved.
He also seemed a titan on earth.
He was over six-foot-five and weighed almost three hundred pounds, with enormous shoulders and thighs and a great bulging muscular neck.
Felix nodded pleasantly to him, then called the others together to go. Then he whispered to Francisco to go on ahead and turned back to the Man. His voice was almost a whisper.
“Father, Jack loved you, didn’t he?”
The Man hesitated, said, “Yes, he did.”
“He also hated you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. The young man looked pained, looked reluctant, miserable. At last he sighed.
“I suppose I’ll start to hate you, too.”
The Man did not answer. What could he answer? Of course the young warrior would soon hate him.
And, of course, he would be correct.
Do not go! he wanted to say. But he could not say this. Stay and enjoy my gardens and the sunshine and your lives!
But he did not say this either.
Father, forgive me!
The crowd had gathered at the door to the terrace. More goodbyes were said. There were final smiles. A final embrace for the bride. Then it was time to go.
Cat, who had not yet met the towering Francisco, was impressed. He stared openly at the massive build, the great tree-trunk legs, and particularly at the bulging neck as wide as his own waist.
“What,” he asked suddenly, “is the Church’s position on steroids?”
“Never mind,” he added quickly to the cleric’s surprised face. “Come with me Francisco,” he said next, guiding the larger man through the door.
Then he stopped, looked up at him.
“Tell me, Father, can you drive a car?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” replied Cat and he started them through the door again and down the hall out of sight. “You can drive. Then, if it breaks down, you can carry it…”
Then they were all gone. Only the Man stood alone in his garden, smiling. Proud. Sad.
Oh, Sweet Savior, how you must love them…