Silvānus (Estonia)

[Patricus I]

Patricus I put no stock in luck. He sneered at the thought, expending little effort to hide the derisive reaction. Thalia would misinterpret the reprieve as personal, but such was her freedom to divine. She would not seek clarification. None did. They labeled him, tucking and folding him into neat little boxes that would surely burn the hand to open as readily as hers’. ‘Perhaps you are disappointed’, the label stuck to his robes like glue, dragging at the grounds, shredded as though he crawled through a briar. He may have well pulled the thorns to his own brow. The wound stung, but a deep breath of fresh air soothed the unexpected, but old, ache.

He wasn’t disappointed. He was lonely. With the one companion the whole of his life, he sensed Him now. Or perhaps it was flatulence. Sometimes he couldn’t discern the two. Either way, his companion was an invisible presence as steadfast and unreachable as the sun. To burn the hand that touches it unprepared for the light. Such a bedfellow made for a distant bridegroom. He tucked himself methodically into the covers at night, content and sleepy, but the soul wandered aimlessly. It was probably why the river washed him to Nimeda’s shore.

He needed her.

He needed someone.

A wariness accustomed to the old and wrinkled Popes she imagined him to be answered her assumption with confirmation. “I am tired of walking in circles.”

He paused, but only to gesture at the drawings once more. “You drew a shard that gleams like crystal. Tuuru gave it to me, but it disappeared. Your hand is imprinted on Nimeda’s. There is truth in some dreams and echoes stretch from the soul into the plane of the flesh. When I dream, sometimes I know what it means, but it always comes to pass,” he said with an air of gravitas undeserved. He went on. “I dreamed of a flood the night of the Tsunami. I woke knowing what would come, unknowing of when. So I waited. When Father Cheney found me, I knew what it would be before the headline scrolled,” he explained, gaze attuned to the past. Or perhaps the future. They were one in the same.

Prophecy weaves a thread through all the ages.

There was a gasp behind them.

He hadn’t noticed their recent companion joining. Patricus turned to acknowledge the intrusion of an older priest, slender glasses perched on his nose. It was the Vatican Secretariat of State whom accompanied him on this trip out of sheer insistence and annoying grit of will. Father Ando must have sent him out after being rebuffed earlier.

His jaw was agape as he hurried close. If he noticed Thalia before, his focus was tunnel vision now. “Holy Father, why have you never told us the Lord has given to you the gift of prophecy?” The normally verbose Cardinal musg have been rendered nearly speechless given he paused after one question.

Patricus I glared. All these years the gift that was his to horde was known to the worst person possible.

Shit.

Patricus waved, “Go away Giancarlo.”

The Cardinal’s momentary flight of fancy seemed contained now. He cleared his throat and shoved his glasses up higher on his nose
“Holy Father, your behavior has caught some attention. It is quite odd,” he glanced at Thalia. A few bystanders had taken up sentry across the street.

Philip was deadpan, “All these years, Giancarlo. You are slow to learn.”

The Secretary shrugged, “This is true, Holy Father. I have been told my mind is sluggish to churn but a reliable sponge to soak up bubbles of soapy truth.“

Philip cut him off. “If you stop, I will go inside. But for Heaven’s sake, never say ‘soapy truth’ again.”

With a nod, Giancarlo left, apparently satisfied with the Pope’s promise.