09-14-2020, 02:22 AM
Patricus I traveled abroad less than his predecessors travelled in a single year. He couldn’t allow his reputation to be tarnished now. Therefore, as the plane chartered by the Vatican landed in the obscurity of Siberian plains, a helicopter deposited meaningless staffers on the Vatican helipad. None could wear the white robes only allowed to dress the back of the Holy Father, so a decoy Pope was out of the question. It was sworn to him upon threat of medieval torture devices concealed in the Vatican Archives that the number of eyes witnessing the apparent return of the Pope would be limited to none. Only those in the highest levels of the Pope’s confidence knew he wasn’t within the boundaries of his sovereign home.
Thousands of miles to the east, Philip crawled from another helicopter, a charter out of Vanavara village, a place more accustomed to extreme adventurers and conspiracy theorists than holy sovereigns. It wasn’t easy to conceal his arrival, but the cloak of nighttime and the red drape of an actual cape did most of the work. Money did the rest.
The sun lifted above the horizon just as the pilot spoke over the headset.
“We are five minutes from landing. The Tunguska event fields are below us now,” the pilot said.
The event in mention was the one that drew conspiracists and adventurers to this remote landscape. He was more than accustomed to helicopter travel. He’d been on one at least three times. As Philip looked out the window, he couldn’t discern the trees rolling below to be the outgrowth of a scorched earth one and a half centuries beforehand. Nor did the sky roll with the ashes of an explosion that was heard six hundred miles away.
They soon landed in a clearing alongside the glassy course of a river. Naturally, Philip’s memory was drawn elsewhere, but the alpine forest and tufted grass was unfamiliar. His gaze swept the field of view, lovely as it was, for larch trees, but even to his trained eye, none were in sight. He didn’t know what to expect, but his disappointment was growing into regret with each passing minute.
“Is this the epicenter?” he asked the pilot after being assisted out. By then the helicopter was powered down and the solemn silence of nature and solitude blasted all their ears.
“No, Holy Father,” he replied. “It is a short hike to the clearing fields where nothing will grow. The only remains are the husks of barkless, limbless trees. There are no safe landing zones. When you are ready, we can begin the journey.”
He nodded and turned back to the river. It reminded him of a watershed more than a river: wide and shallow rather than deep and ancient. He half wondered if Nimeda would manifest herself on the bank, but he knew such visions to be foolishness, and he turned back with a nod. He arranged the pellegrina of his cape about his shoulders and fitted the brim of the saturno cap upon his head. “I am ready,” he ordered.
After the pilot gathered the necessary supplies, they proceeded toward the tree line. He clutched his hands tightly at his waist while they walked, but not due to the tricky terrain. Red leather Armani was not the recommended footwear for a hike.
Thousands of miles to the east, Philip crawled from another helicopter, a charter out of Vanavara village, a place more accustomed to extreme adventurers and conspiracy theorists than holy sovereigns. It wasn’t easy to conceal his arrival, but the cloak of nighttime and the red drape of an actual cape did most of the work. Money did the rest.
The sun lifted above the horizon just as the pilot spoke over the headset.
“We are five minutes from landing. The Tunguska event fields are below us now,” the pilot said.
The event in mention was the one that drew conspiracists and adventurers to this remote landscape. He was more than accustomed to helicopter travel. He’d been on one at least three times. As Philip looked out the window, he couldn’t discern the trees rolling below to be the outgrowth of a scorched earth one and a half centuries beforehand. Nor did the sky roll with the ashes of an explosion that was heard six hundred miles away.
They soon landed in a clearing alongside the glassy course of a river. Naturally, Philip’s memory was drawn elsewhere, but the alpine forest and tufted grass was unfamiliar. His gaze swept the field of view, lovely as it was, for larch trees, but even to his trained eye, none were in sight. He didn’t know what to expect, but his disappointment was growing into regret with each passing minute.
“Is this the epicenter?” he asked the pilot after being assisted out. By then the helicopter was powered down and the solemn silence of nature and solitude blasted all their ears.
“No, Holy Father,” he replied. “It is a short hike to the clearing fields where nothing will grow. The only remains are the husks of barkless, limbless trees. There are no safe landing zones. When you are ready, we can begin the journey.”
He nodded and turned back to the river. It reminded him of a watershed more than a river: wide and shallow rather than deep and ancient. He half wondered if Nimeda would manifest herself on the bank, but he knew such visions to be foolishness, and he turned back with a nod. He arranged the pellegrina of his cape about his shoulders and fitted the brim of the saturno cap upon his head. “I am ready,” he ordered.
After the pilot gathered the necessary supplies, they proceeded toward the tree line. He clutched his hands tightly at his waist while they walked, but not due to the tricky terrain. Red leather Armani was not the recommended footwear for a hike.
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