Michael: The Last Pope?

By James M. McGrenere

This story is predicated upon the little known fact that any male who has been baptized as a Christian is eligible to become Pope. The Catholic Church usually requires that he also be confirmed. This, however, is not the real impediment as such a thing is most unlikely to happen, on the face of it. Unless, of course, if as the Church proclaims the Holy Ghost actually exists.

St. Malachy, an Irish mystic, created a remarkably accurate list of Popes from his day in the 1300s to beyond our present time. According to this list there are to be two more Popes; a short reign and then the last Pope.

What would the world be like if the Holy Ghost did interfere in the election of the last Pope. That does indeed present us with many interesting possibilities.

This book is in eight parts, starting with:

THE END OF DAYS: The story opens in the late spring of 2007 with a conclave to elect a successor to the second-last Pope. For a number of months it has been deadlocked, when a series of dreams introduce a name that eventually is voted as the next Pope. A search finds the possessor of that name and a birthmark on his neck that will make him Pope.

THE COMING: We go back to Ireland in 1896 where one of the O'Shey twins is murdered in a most gruesome manner. The other runs off to Canada. He marries a young woman he meets in a most unusual manner on the ship. They have a family and we follow their son patrick (Paddy) O'Shey who has a very eventful life as a professional baseball player and war hero, and despite his feeling of failure his son becomes the new Pope.

WAR: Concerns the exploits of Paddy O'Shey while in France in 1940.

JOURNEY TO NOW: Here we follow the quiet life of our hero, James Michael O'Shey, from birth until he is most unexpectedly picked to be Pope. With a stop to cover the exploits of his father in the Far East during the war against the Japanese.

FROM PERDITION TO PERIL: Back to Ireland in 1896 where the murdered of the O'Shey twin, one Jack Cassidy,, runs away in great remorse for the obscenity he has committed. He goes to England and to the astonishment of even himself, becomes a Catholic, a lawyer, a General serving in WWI and long time member of parliament. his son, Aaron, who lives a quiet life, has a son he names for his father; James Winston Cassidy becomes the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster and the antagonist to the new Pope. He is one of the ones who tries to kill Michael.

IN THE BEGINNING: This section follows Michael as he accepts the charge to be Pope. He introduces a new theology into the Church, dissolves the College of Cardinals and calls an Ecumenical Council. He fires every bishop and most of the workers in the Curia and replaces them temporarily until the council can decide on the future structure of the Church. He replaces over a thousand Bishops with men who are not wedded to the fear based past.

END OF THE BEGINNING: Here we follow Michael as he meets the world and introduces his new theology, travels to Canada, the United States and the UN, survives a number of attempts on his life, and generally puts his house in order. He introduces the universal Catholic Church and meets the resistance from the frightened ones with alacrity and forceful theological dexterity. However, a supposed miracle put a bit of a damper on his enthusiasm.

THE END OF THE BEGINNING: Michael sets forth the criteria for the Council. When all seems to be going as expected he is faced with a double attempt to kill him. With this negative adventure, and a metaphysical juxtaposition, the fate of the Universal Catholic Church is put on hold while the readers make up their minds as to the desirability of the message that Michael preaches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 20, 2005
• ISBN: 9781412229814

James M. McGrenere

I was born on the blistering cold day of November 25, 1936 in London Ontario. I was educated in the Catholic school system until high school, where I attended a technical school to study commercial art. However, I did not work as a commercial artist mostly because of a semi-debilitating case of agoraphobia. I left the Catholic Church as a teenager totally disillusioned by the banality and gross dishonesty that was presented as a unique truth. It was the search for that actual truth that after many years brought me into communion with my Spiritual Guides. Finding the Guides occasioned almost 20 years of study at their direction, leading to an absorption of the message contained in the book. Actually, the message came in the guise of a great knowing that was sprung on me all at once and necessitated a number of years hard work testing its assertions. In 24 years I have not yet come across a question about the human condition that it cannot answer. There is no fallback position that would be asserted as a mystery. Meanwhile, I spent 25 years with the Canada Post as a clerk, supervisor and the last 12 as a training officer. I retired from Canada Post in 1988 at the age of 52, with a very small pension, to preach the message that is contained in Michael: The Last Pope. I ran out of money and had to sell my house and we moved into a mobile home on the Kettle Point Reservation and stayed for five years. My guides suggested that this move was necessary for me to learn patience. I do hope it worked. It was an adventure and quite interesting but something one should only do once. My wife and I moved to Winnipeg in 1998 at the urging of my Spiritual Guides, and I have preached the message a few hundred times in workshops and speaking at the Fellowship Spiritualist Church. My guides strongly suggested the need, so at their behest and with their help, I wrote this book in 2002-2004.

Book preview

THE END OF DAY!

And lo I say onto you all this will be fulfilled in the end of days

CHAPTER I

Francis Kimberly Keyes sat nursing a stale drink, as only an old newspaperman can, staring at his laptop with non-focusing eyes, waiting for his brain to tell him that a story is indeed to be found within. This he hoped with what little hope remained. The message had been unequivocal: Get a story or get lost. Nice people!

Something caught his eye and ear simultaneously. A disturbance! Important? Maybe or maybe not. However, it definitely sounded like the running of many feet on the sidewalk outside the Café de Moltin where he had made his headquarters for the down times. It was a refuge, a place where he spent the night trying to dream up an interesting story to cover up the silence coming from that damned conclave. The old Pope was dead over three months now, and these characters had been at it for forty-six days with no results. No white smoke, only black.

Frank, as his friends called him, was under a lot of pressure from his editor at the New York Times, the latest of many such jobs he had passed through in a long career. At fifty-seven, the end was a hell of a lot closer than the beginning, and this added a little more anxiety to the knowledge that there weren’t very many good stories left; not for an old-fashion news- hound like him. What with all the TV crews wandering about on this particular story, and their ability to give coverage to events as they happened, one had to have a lot of good luck, or a contact somewhere in the story, just to stay even with those guys.

His blurry eyes stared at the window, determined to focus out onto the street, while his sleep-deprived brain tried valiantly to find some way to get this body in motion. Attempting unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, he lurched to his feet, somehow managed to down the last of his Grand Marnier breakfast, and stumbled toward the bright morning sun and the rising sound of excitement. Momentarily blinded by the day as he entered the street, he could hear people shouting, E bianco! E bianco!

It’s white smoke, he thought. Good God! They’ve finally done it! he exclaimed to no one in particular. E bianco, was all around him as he made his way—quickly for him, down the Via Ottaviano, towards the Via della Conciliazione and the entrance to the Plaza de San Padro, and into that ethereal world of the Vatican.

As he ran—or more correctly—lurched, down the street, he was becoming more aware of the multitude around him all shouting or honking the horns of hundreds of cars.

Jesus! Where did they all come from! he blurted.

Feeling somewhat invigorated by the running, he dashed into the piazza just as the smoke began to turn gray. .Here it was, black again. The disappointment of the people as they arrived washed over him like a great wall of cold water. Everywhere there came murmurs of disappointed anger and shouts of disgust. You couldn’t blame them much for their anger; after all, these people have been waiting for quite awhile now for those turkeys in there to do their job. Day after day of black smoke was getting on everyone’s nerves. Yet there had been conclaves that lasted years, so this really wasn’t too long by that standard.

Well, he thought, I might as well file this night’s work and get some sleep. He had spent a good part of the night trying to get some semblance of an idea of what was going on in there, from Monsignor Lucian Martinini, one ofhis contacts at Vatican City Radio. God! What ajob that was!

No matter how much booze he shoved Lucian’s way, all he could get for publication was that Radio Vatican City had no idea what was going on in there, period. Hell! he thought, I might just as well tell the world that these clowns have voted for some unknown from the boondocks. Some place like Canada or Australia; and now they can’t find him to ask if he wants the job. Damned good idea, that, flashed through his brain as he stopped dead in his tracks. He looked around at the many faces of anger surrounding him. As their feelings buffeted against his own disquiet—Jesus! He shook his head. I think I will! What the hell’ve I got to lose?

So he did. Hell, a mild sensation might be good for his ego and his paycheck, as long as he attributed the story to some unknown Vatican spokesman. So, back to the Café de Moltin, a little more spring in his step, now that he had something concrete to write about. His mind grabbed at and began worrying over his brilliant idea, and forming it into what would be its final form. Jesus! Frank, me boy, you are a genius at times, chirpped his ego, as he walked along with a new-formed smile playing across his handsome, rugged face.

When he awoke that evening; showered and whatever, he went down to the dining room of the Hotel Michaelangelo for a breakfast-supper.

Real food this time, he decided.

He couldn’t avoid the gaggle of fellow correspondents who’d seen his somewhat jaunty entrance. God! He felt refreshed and wholly alive for once. So he ambled over to their table and ordered dinner. While enjoying a glass of light white Italian wine, he began to brag about his scooping the rest of them with his story about the phantom Pope. These guys are old hands at this kind of work, so it felt gratifying to have their undivided attention as he expanded the story even more than he had written. The look of incredulity on their faces was almost worth a Pulitzer’s. Well, not really; but it sure felt good.

Sitting around him thinking he was the world’s biggest liar, or had gone off his rocker, were John Whiteside of Reuters, Macy Kirkland from U.P., Patricia O’Boyle of the Manchester Guardian, Art Ross of the Chicago Tribune, Ezzra Holton of the Vancouver Sun, and a guy he didn’t know, from the Winnipeg Free Press, who goes by the name of Charlie Smith.

Well, he concluded as his dinner arrived, it looks like these guys might need ‘America’s Most Wanted’ to help find their phantom Pope. As I say, if this turns out to be true, those clowns over there have created the biggest fuck-up in the history of the Church. And that’s saying something!

Keyes! You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown, came from Art Ross. This is the wildest story you’ve ever come up with.

’Taint just a story, Artie boy. You read my column to-day; it’s all in there, man.

Come on, Frank, you gotta be kiddin’.

Not so, Izzy. You know I wouldn’t shit you guys. This is the hottest fart this story has given yet. Even so, it’s a hell of a lot better than reporting black smoke all the time. Hey, even if it is a load of crap, it makes the day go by, and keeps the customers happy.

I think you’re crazy, said Art Ross. If you pulled this thing out of your shit bag, they’ll can you as sure as hell. You’re too old to be looking for a new career.

Smith leaned over and whispered to Frank, Do you know this guy Miller?

Miller?

Yea. You know: that guy, that little short fellow over at Vatican Radio.

Oh, yea! I talked to him the other day. What about him?

Well, he told me much the same thing this morning. Is he your source?

No! Not him; I hardly know the man. He told you the same thing, did he?

Well, almost. He said they had voted for someone outside their own ranks and were waiting word that he will accept, before we get white smoke.

Hot damn! I think I got a winner here, lads.

You got shit. That’s what you got. You are the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever come across. I’ll bet you made up the story just to fill in a few slow days. I don’t know how you do it, mumbled Izzy.

Well, lads, I’m off to do some work on my book while you chase down some news.

Oh, for Christ’s sakes! Whiteside exclaims. Every fucking time there’s five minutes of down time, you trot out that bloody book. None of us has ever seen the damned thing. I don’t think there is a book.

Jesus! John, what’s put a bug up your ass? You can see the book if it will make you any happier. Maybe I’ll just forget it and go over and talk to Miller. Might just be something new since I been asleep. He heaved himself out of his chair and headed for the door. He turned and took a parting shot. Read my column when it gets here. Then you’ll know what’s going on. Have a nice day, gentlemen; ladies. And ducked out the door before any flying thing could hit him.

Yes sir, he thought to himself, good livin’ and a sweet nature sure do pay off at times.

CHAPTER II

On a day not more than ten days ago, a hazy new dawn slipped silently over the eternal city. Just then, deep in the mysterious vitals of this strife-torn conclave, a stirring of new life was becoming evident. Some of the Holy Fathers had been up for some time, but their silent drifting into the chapel for some guidance, most desperately needed, had made no disturbance upon the unconscious forms of their more exhausted brothers. Presently there were sounds of movement; and soft whispers of conversations drifted through the still, dark, narrow halls of Saint Martha’s House.

While some prayed for guidance in the face of this Gordion Knot of a conclave, others prepared for the morning’s first mass. Many also harbored thoughts of breakfast. After all, they definitely needed sustenance to help move these old bones of theirs.

The night had not been kind to Carlos Cerda. He had been awake most of it; or at least he thought he had. There had been a visit from a strange, white-haired man who, although he looked old, didn’t seem so as they talked. Carlos couldn’t remember if he was really here or he had just dreamed him. It surely seemed real. The man had wanted him to change his vote. But he didn’t say who to change it to. Yet, the dream that had awakened him certainly had a name. It was all name. He wondered if the two dreams were two parts of one larger thought. This suspicion had just started to form into coherence, when he heard a light knocking at his door. He rolled over, and leaning on one elbow, looked up at Vincente Attiri, who hadjust pushed his head around the door.

Good morning, he said.

Good morning, little brother, answered the much bigger man. And how are you this fine day?

As good as God wants me to be, I guess, was the reply. There was definitely a note of preoccupation in its tone.

You seem somewhat lost this morning. What troubles you so?

I…1 had the strangest dream. Just before… His voice drifted off into a loud silence.

Just before what? was Vincente Attiri’s impatient reply.

He was now quite interested in what the tiny, old man had to say; for he had had a dream also, just as he was waking up. It was troubling, to be sure, and even though he had had little time to digest the significance of it, he was more than just a little startled by its strange reality. Now his friend of these many years reveals he has had a dream also.

Just before I awoke, Cerda continued, in a voice that seemed to still be in a dream, I dreamed that a…that a…great wind was blowing, and I was on the top of a high hill, and there was darkness all around. Lightning split the sky, and the wind blew so loud that it was the only thing I was aware of. Then…then it seemed to . „say something to…to me. It said…something… it. Silence.

Cardinal Attiri’s heart beat faster. His mouth was suddenly dry. This was almost the identical dream that had awakened him not five minutes ago.

What did the wind say? he inquired, in a surprisingly steady voice.

It…it…: just said… He was having trouble forming an answer. It just said the name. Yes, it was just a name. It seemed to blow into my whole being, and all I could think of was that name. Everything I thought or heard or felt was that name. It said ‘James Michael’ over and over again—’James Michael—James Michael—James Michael.’ Yes! That’s it! Just the name James Michael, until…until, high up in the darkest part of the sky, there was a crown. Yes! A golden crown just like the Holy Father wears. Just like… And the half-musing, rambling voice drifted into silence once more.

Vincente Attiri had had the same dream; except there was no crown in his. There was just the wind and the insistent all-persuasive name.

What a strange coincidence, he thought. I wonder what it means, if it means anything.

With a force of will, a trait developed over the years to deny his mind the right to think in areas that it might have gone on its own, Attiri pushed the thought away and asked, Do you need anything, my little friend?

No, no, I’m all right. Thank you.

See you shortly, then.

Vincente went across the hall to his own room, and proceeded to touch his toes forty times; did twenty-five pushups; and quickly dressed to meet the new day. After the vigorous exercises, and with a renewed force of his considerable will, Vincente set aside the strange coincidences of the dream, or dreams, to be correct, and set out to meet the demands of his position and responsibility. As Camerlengo, he had to run this affair, even if it was the most disappointing conclave in over a century. Deadlock! What a dreadful sound as it echoed through his head.

Old Carlos Cardinal Cerda was left to dress and wrestle with his strange and disturbing dream in his own way. He did just that, dressing in his slow, deliberate manner; and without thought of anything or anybody, wandered across to the Sistine, and quietly sat and waited for the first vote of the day. He had forgotten to say Mass or even to attend one, such was his confusion and distraction.

The first ballot of the day brought signs that fatigue was setting in. Three Cardinals had been chosen infirmarii, although today they were not needed, as there were no Cardinals too sick to attend. The scrutineer- counters had been changed 9 times so far, with Eugene De Valitta being the official scrutineer still at his post.

The room was quiet as the Camerlengo rose to deposit his ballot. He moved slowly towards the long table where the scrutineers and counters sat. However, like so many times before in this dreadful affair, he turned into a small, side chapel and knelt, bowed his head, said a small prayer, and proceeded to the table to complete his vote. He stood before the table upon which a huge, gold chalice sat waiting to collect the votes of the assembled prelates. He held the ballot at eye level as each would do after him, and had done many times before, and intoned the ritual: I call to witness Christ the Lord, who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one, before God, I consider should be elected. He then placed the ballot on the paten, a saucer-shaped, gold plate sitting on top of the chalice. Then he turned the paten over, depositing the ballot into the chalice itself. It was done.

Each of the 110 Cardinals that was eligible to vote repeated this procedure. It was a long and tedious ritual that was tiring to all concerned. When the ballots were all in the chalice, the official scrutineer shook the chalice vigorously to mix them. He then removed the ballots and handed them to another scrutineer who counted them out loud and confirmed there were indeed 110. He then placed the ballots into a silver chalice almost as big as the gold one, and shook it vigorously. The three scrutineers then began their part of the ritual. The first took a ballot from the chalice, opened the folded paper, read the name, and made a note of it on a large note pad. He then passed the ballot to the second scrutineer, who repeated the process and passed the ballot on to the third scrutineer, who read the name out loud. The Lord Cardinal Mancuso, and entered this information on his pad.

The counting was going on its tedious way, with most Cardinals almost slumbering, until the ninety-first ballot. Albert Fidello, the third Cardinal scrutineer, read the name, and his mouth fell open, and he just stared at what was written on it. He was about to say one spoiled ballot, when Eugene De Valitta leaned over and said in his quiet authoritative voice, Read the name, Albert. Albert blanched and flushed all at the same time; looked at De Valitta, then back at the ballot and out to his fellow Cardinals as if to seek help or something. He stammered at first and finally, on the second try, croaked out the name ‘James Michael’. He shrugged his shoulders and pierced the ballot, with a needle attaching it, on a long string with all the rest.

Eueene Cardinal De Valitta stood and read out the results.

Who was this James Michael? It looked like someone was trying to use this extraordinary method to break the disheartening deadlock. But, wait, someone must have conspired with a second voter to have two ballots for that name. The afternoon ballot brought two more ballots for this James Michael. They were still deadlocked, yet now, with three names in the mix, anything could happen. Usually, the rules required two-thirds plus one to decide an election for Pope, but since 1996, a new provision allowed that after 30 ballots at two-thirds plus one, electors may decide to use a simple majority for election. Both sides knew that they only had to hold out for a few days and when 50% plus one was in force, they could use their muscle to get the required extra votes. But in this case, 56 votes had been held with no winning result so far. Usually, four ballots a day were held, but after deadlock set in, it was decided to vote once in the morning and once in the afternoon so more time could be utilized to try to break this miserable impasse.

The afternoon results were:

This result caused a great deal of muttering and definitely, consternation, as they tried to come to grips with this very curious happening. The conversations were many. The questions came by the thousands, but the answers were few, if any at all. Some thought of it as a miracle, while others said it was tantamount to blasphemy. No one could really say for sure; but it certainly was strange. It looked like this conclave was to be similar to that of 1800 that lasted three-and-a-half months. A good deal of this was because there was in those days a great tension between the secular powers and the Church, as some of the great Catholic secular powers actually held a veto over the conclaves. This time the tension was between those who wished to take the Church back towards its medieval mode of intolerance and absolutism, and those who advocated a tolerant and loving vision of God. Despite being less than one-third of this assembly, the smug Europeans were still a greater force in the Church as a whole, than their numbers warranted. It was their split on this question that formed the two sides battling in this obvious Christian manner, and the Cardinals from the rest of the Church just seemed to fall in behind their European brothers in numbers such that have produced this deadlock.

The following day, very early in the morning, just after the clock turned past 3:30, a shadow moved down the narrow hall; saw another, and stopped. The shadowy figure, standing motionless by a door, beckoned, and whispered, Eminence. Constantine Cardinal Piesa let the first shadow into the room, turned and checked the hall once more, passed through the doorway, and closed it gently behind him.

It’s back, Ferdy. He seemed to choke out the words to Devon Fredrick Luger, Cardinal Archbishop of Cologne and, since his days at the seminary of St. Matthew at Lovett-on-Tyre in England, Ferdy to his friends.

I don’t know what to do. Father Benidetti says this has been going on now for three days. He dreams and calls out that name during the night, and in the day he has nothing to say. I thought he was the only one voting in this irresponsible way, but after three new votes for that phantom, it seems to be growing like an epidemic. It’s just too much!

Devon Luger felt very uneasy. He noticed what must be traces of tears, probably shed just moments ago, still clinging to the Secretary of State’s eye. His heart was heavy for his friend, but the terror that seemed to close more and more tightly about him was for the man in the bed.

Yes; for the figure lying there was John Cardinal Walsh, Archbishop of Cork, and primate of all Ireland, a person about whom nothing of a negative nature had ever been spoken; and nothing would be more true than to say: Here is a man. Tall, copper-topped and even at sixty, good-looking enough to break the hearts of all the girls from Kerrytown, as the saying goes. John bore a remarkable sense of self-worth, self-image and pride about his own being. And yet, his humility was legend within this group whose job it was to spot false humility a mile away. He was a contradiction in terms. At one and the same time, he was proud and humble, soft and strong, gregarious and introverted, earthy and reverent; and always gentle to everyone around. He could say the most outrageous things, and yet there seemed to be so much love bursting from his being, you just knew there could not possibly be malice involved. His sense of humor, most often directed at himself, swept all before him. He saw humor and pathos in all things, and then again, he could if need be—with flashing eyes and flayed nostrils—mount a most furious campaign to take issue with anyone who might even hint at being a danger to Holy Mother the Church. A tower of intellectual ability and at the same time, by his own admission, extraordinarily stupid; although none had yet seen this phenomenon. In all things and in all ways, considered by his peers, a man.

These thoughts rolled through Devon Luger’s mind as he moved across the room and stood looking down at his old friend. Although Walsh was not of the conservative gathering that he, Cardinal Luger, had helped put together, he also was not linked with those featherheads who want to change everything about the church. They want to throw out the baby with the bath water, was one of his most often used sayings. How far he has fallen, prodded at his brain, as he gazed in helpless wonder at the spectacle on the cot. The figure stirred.

Michael, Michael, called the voice.

John Walsh sat up, eyes open, with a look of absolute wonder shining on his face. His lips formed the words although his eyes did not see. Michael, Michael, James Michael, he moaned, and slumped backwards. Michael…He must be the one, filled the room, as he once more sank into a deeper sleep. Constantine Piesa bent and gently tucked the covers back over the sleeping figure; then sat back with a sigh on the edge of the small desk that made up most of the furniture in the sparse room.

Three nights, he said. Three nights this has been going on. This intermitting scream that James Michael must be the one. Yesterday morning it was obvious, that one of the votes for this James Michael was cast by Walsh, but the two new votes this afternoon were inexplicable. God only knows what to-morrow will bring.

CHAPTER III

After Mass and breakfast, an impromptu meeting was in progress in the room of James Cardinal Cassidy, Archbishop of Westminister, and Primate of England. Cassidy was the leader of a determined and resourceful cabal that was dedicated to stopping anyone who might make untoward changes in their Church. This group had by its determination deadlocked this conclave. Cardinal Cassidy had been saying many times from the first day on—If we just hang together and wait, the forces of change will get tired of this deadlock and break. The change that had taken place yesterday had caused a tidal wave of concern and fear to sweep through their ranks. Some of the weaker members were clamoring for some kind of explanation. Cassidy had only one.

Cardinal Lippart, one of the more staunch conservatives, sputtered and began to speak. "Brothers. Brothers. Something terrible…Something so awful, so very awful… is happening to us. I know for a fact that three supporters of Mancuso changed their vote to our candidate. Yes, three. Yet the count stayed the same, except for those four votes for that James Michael, phantom. My God! If three votes changed for Del Atorini, we should have won. We should have won. My God! What is happening to

US?

Now don’t get your shirt in a knot; itjust means that three other votes change to go the other way, that’s all, assured Cardinal Cassidy.

Possibly it was a maneuver to see if they will break first and switch to another candidate, chipped in Cardinal Kulto. Yet, within himself he conceded the change of votes had taken place and still they were deadlocked.

Devon Luger thought he knew what had happened, but he couldn’t tell these people. The mere thought of actual interference in their conclave by the Holy Spirit was most daunting, and conducive to more than one shiver of fear running up and down his back. All he and Cassidy could say for now was to hold ranks and they would find out what was going on. Each person in the room, and there were 18 Cardinals jammed in there, was enjoined to report to the others anything he might pickup during the day.

As the disappointed Cardinals filed out, Devon touched Cassidy’s arm. When the others had left and the door was once more closed, Devon told Cassidywhat he had learned aboutjohn Walsh. Cassidywas appalled.

He has become one of our enemies, then. He sighed.

Oh, no! exclaimed Devon. We have no enemies within this college. We may disagree sharply at times, but we are united in the love of Christ. These disagreements should never produce enemies. However, he heaved a great sigh, I know it probably does. However, our agreement not to place his name in contention for this great office still stand.

Cassidy placed his hand on Devon’s shoulder. We will respect his wishes. Have no fear of that. Yet, we are truly divided, my friend, in the most fundamental and irrevocable way. Cassidy was all for taking some kind of forceful action. However, he didn’t have the slightest idea what that might be, so he didn’t bring the need to Devon’s attention just at this moment. This news did give him some ammunition to use if he could formulate a course of action. The bell rang just then, calling all Cardinals to conclave, saving the need to cover his indecision.

They moved across the short distance from Saint Martha’s House, through a temporary covered walkway, to the fabled Sistine Chapel, where they would once again try to find some way to break this deadlock.

Each Cardinal was seated at his own desk. On each is a leather folder with the Cardinal’s name embossed on it. Besides the folder there was one pen, three ballots, and scratch paper for keeping track of the balloting as it progressed; or for just doodling, if that’s what the Cardinal wants. Each ballot has printed on it in Latin the words I elect as Supreme Pontiff. To vote, each Cardinal is supposed to write the name of his choice in a handwriting slightly different to what he usually uses (printing is the preferred method). He folds the ballot in half and proceeds to the front of the room in order of seniority. Usually this is done in near silence, with but a few murmured exclamations at the course that the counting is taking. Today, however, there is considerable noise as questions and grunts of displeasure are proffered after each name is called.

Finally, the old man looked up from his desk, paused to reflect on the insanity of the whole thing, murmured softly to himself, Thy will be done, and struggled to push himself to his feet. Although some years under the dreaded eighty-years-of-age that would excuse him from taking part in the vote, Eugene Cardinal De Valitta wished fervently that he could be excused fromwhat is going on here. Being a scrutineer had seemed like an interesting job when this all started. Now it was definitely a burden that should be taken by a much younger man; but it was his. This was to be the crowning glory to his forty-seven years service to the Church. Eugene Polo De Valitta, Cardinal Archbishop of Milan; the flower of the Abruzzi, as he was known to his most intimate friends, the intimate of Popes, forty-seven years a priest; yet in all that time, nothing like this could ever have entered his mind. Despite last night’s dream, this was insanity. That anyone would place the name of a non-Cardinal on a ballot is one thing, but to put the name of a total stranger—and worse than a total stranger—a name without a body or a person to go with it, was madness. Now, at the end of the eighty- ninth ballot, that name had registered ten more votes, for a total of sixteen. Dear God, save us from our folly, was all he could think as he announced to the assembled congregation the outcome of the just-finished voting.

Brothers, the results of our vote.

The intake of breath was like a tornado swirling around the room. Their incredulity was a tangible substance filling up the room and making it hard to breathe. A murmur started and swept around the chamber heading for a panic, when the booming voice of Vincente Cardinal Attiri the Camerlengo declared, My Brothers! We must have a recess for dinner, and a moment to think over this momentous happening and what we are doing here. They all just stared after him as he turned and marched out of the chapel.

Near-pandemonium ensued as the Cardinals moved rapidly to follow him.

A most unusual and rude occurrence, thought Eugene De Vallita, as he moved to direct the other eminent persons out of the hall—although, after these many days in this confined atmosphere they really need no direction. But it was a matter of form, and Eugene De Vallita, if nothing else, was a man of form.

After the majority had left, Eugene also made his way, quietly heading for the chapel dedicated to his guardian, St. John the Baptist, to have a word or two with his God about this matter. He lowered himself to kneel before the altar, made the sign of the cross across his front, lowered his head and began to weep. Tears ran in rivers as sobs racked the gigantic old man. He tried to say something, but his mind was a blank. Nothing but emotion filled him. He was projecting to his God feelings of fear, surprise, disgust, and sorrow at the near-blasphemy that had taken place this day.

Please, dear Father, don’t let them do this thing to your Church. Remember Thy children who have served Thee faithfully these many years. Please don’t let them destroy what we have worked so diligently to keep in the purest form we can…Words then deserted him. The idea of censure was very strong in his breast, but how can one censure one’s God? Suddenly a feeling of dread gripped his heart. His eyes turned quickly upward. Forgive this old man, my Father; he feels a moment of rebellion. Please help me, Father; I cannot understand your ways and I am afraid. Give me directions. Please, dear Father, I beg of Thee, give me directions. He knelt there for the longest time, hoping against hope for some answer.

Suddenly, a voice so very much like his own blurted into his mind— Follow your dreams…Follow my dreams! echoed away in his mind. He jerked backwards. Just then, James Cassidy caught him, as he was so startled he would have fallen over if James had not been there.

Gene! Uhhh.

Come, my friend. You must have something to eat. You can come back later.

Later? I…1 don’t know…1…

Yes, you come back later.

They moved off slowly, with Cassidy holding tight to the distraught man who overnight had become old, and even seeming frail. He held on tight for fear Gene would fall right here if he let him go for even a moment.

Nearby, in a darker part of the chapel, Carlos Cardinal Cerda noticed what had taken place, and returned to his prayers, asking God to forgive him if he had misread the signs. Although it was more like getting hit by a truck than having to decipher nebulous signs, as most of life was like. He didn’t tell Vincente that he had had this dream for three nights, and that he was the one who entered that name into the record. Now, with the addition of fifteen more ballots for it, he became afraid that he had started something awful. What if he was wrong? This was, by a long ways, the most radical thing Carlos had ever done in his life. When they talked about people who did all things by the book, they had unknowingly been describing Carlos Cerda. Carlos was never a gambler, in any way. But now he just couldn’t believe what he had done, and when the terror set in he was rendered immobile. There were rumors in this group of master gossipers that Cardinal Walsh was the one to vote for James Michael first.

Carlos didn’t mind Walsh getting the credit, if credit it was, but he must be prepared to accept criticism if it came to that. Cardinal Walsh must not be blamed for his errors. On the other hand, maybe, just maybe—no matter how unlikely—this was just what God wanted. That fervent hope was becoming his crutch to get through each day. Carlos looked up and thanked his God for listening to him. He apologized for taking up so much of God’s time. Then he made the sign of the cross and with deliberate movements, got to his feet and made his way out to get something to eat.

That night peace reigned at the conclave. After fervent and prodigious prayers entreating guidance from their Master, there were no more dreams to disturb their serenity. Most had a good, deep sleep; but not all. Cardinal Luger, who had put together a most powerful coalition to protect the conservative option and head off the radicals who wanted to change everything, was restless. His mind was shouting at him to think of something. They must regain the initiative. They had held a long meeting earlier this night, some eighteen representatives of that conservative wing of the Church. There had been a lot of talk, much complaining, and some really far-out suggestions. No one, however, could think of a realistic way to stop the insanity that was going on. Suddenly, he sat right up in bed with a most surprised look on his face. The answer had just popped into his head: to-morrow morning he would see Cardinal Mancuso and ascertain if he was amenable to a compromise candidate; someone who was not anathema to either side. Even though he had been instrumental in destroying any attempt at a compromise candidate that had been introduced a few times in the last month. My God! It’s been almost a month all ready, he thought. However, that is the answer. Anthony Mancuso loves the Church even if he does want to change far too much of it. Pulling the certainty of being right around his being, like a blanket, Devon rolled over and settled into a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER IV

In the morning, after Mass and breakfast, Devon looked all over the building for Anthony Mancuso. He was perplexed that a man that always seemed to be within his eyesight for weeks, was nowhere to be found. He didn’t want to send word to Anthony just yet. The way to make this work was to get an agreement first, and let the rest of the Brothers know later. Devon felt that he could end this marathon by the afternoon ballot. But where was Mancuso?

Hurrying along the corridor toward the conclave’s great meeting hall, he saw him. He was standing by the main door talking with Cardinal Del Atorini, his main opposition in this—so far—exercise in frustration. Devon hurried over. Whatever happens, he must head off the disaster he could see hurtling towards the Church, the Church he loved more than even his life. If a compromise must be, it was a small price to pay, to save the Church and do honor to his God.

Good morning, Eminencies.

And good morning to you, Devon, they both spoke at the same time. This brought a laugh from the three of them.

It’s good to see both of you together. The time has come when we must do something to break this deadlock.

Surprising! exclaimed Mancuso. Up to yesterday, you weren’t interested in a compromise candidate. What caused this sudden change of direction? I’ve known you for thirty years, and I don’t ever remember you changing your mind. Something very powerful must have happened. It wouldn’t have anything to do with thisjames Michael thing, would it?

Laugh if you must, but this is really no laughing matter. We could be seeing something very destructive happening if we don’t make a move. I propose we agree on a compromise. Someone like Cardinal Agoretti, or Cardinal Trambley, even.

It has been a fact for some time now that neither Anthony or myself would ever be Pope, said Cardinal Del Atorini. I suggest we get together after this morning’s ballot and see if a compromise is possible.

Just then the bell rang, summoning all present to gather once more.

A decision agreeing on the meeting place in Cardinal Luger’s room was hastily concluded just as a deluge of prelates washed up to the doorway.

When all were seated, Cardinal Vincente Attiri the Camerlengo raised his hand for quiet. He had noted the almost carnival atmosphere in the room, and he thought something must be done to bring the seriousness of the situation home to his Brothers in Christ.

Brothers, I know you are all tired of this place, as am I. However, I must protest the frivolity of some of you entering a fictitious name into these proceedings. I beg of you, get together and find a compromise. It is for the sake of the Church of our Lord. We must take this responsibility most seriously. Surely there is someone in this room that we can agree would make an acceptable Pope. I ask you at this time if you will join me again in special prayer to our Heavenly Father for some guidance in this matter.

After the prayer, the ballots were distributed, and the Cardinals bent low over their desks and performed the task that had become second nature to them by this time.

The scrutineers were shocked as they counted the votes. Nothing in their long years of service to the Church had even come close to preparing them for what they saw. Vincente Attiri had tears in his eyes, and they began to run down his cheeks as he stood up to read the results.

My..my…my…Brothers. I…I…I have to inform you; the results of the…of the… He broke down and cried aloud. Cardinal Trambley, sitting next to him, reached over and took the result form; patted him gently on the shoulder as if to say he understood.

Brothers, he started. "What has upset our Brother Eugene is here in these results.

Thev are:

By a plurality of two we have a new Pope. Whoever he is, we must believe he is God’s choice. The Holy Spirit has spoken. What do we do now?"

After a moment of near silence, pandemonium did break out. Everyone was talking at once. There was a strange jubilation soaring over the anger and consternation of those who were victims of what was an apparent fraud. Devon Luger rushed to the front of the room.

Brothers, Brothers, BROTHERS! Quiet descended upon them. A sense of serenity was in the air. It must not happen, Cardinal Luger knew; whatever was to happen, he must head off this disaster. NO! NO! NO! Brothers, this must never be. We cannot do this. And he shook his finger at them. We must not do this! If we cannot have His Eminence Cardinal Del Atorini, then we must have our friend Anthony. I ask you in the name of Jesus, in the name of our Savior. I know that you voted to suspend the two-thirds plus one for election, but, my Brothers, is not what we are doing here contrary to all the principles of all the conclaves that have preceded us? Please, I entreat you, we must have another ballot. Please, Brothers, another ballot. He slumped back onto the counting table as if totally exhausted.

Cardinal Walsh came over and put his arm around Luger’s shoulders as if to console him. Then he turned to face the buzzing crowd of Cardinals. He shouted for quiet; then put the question. All those who favor another ballot, please put up your right hand.

The counting took very little time, and the result was—57 Cardinals wanting another ballot.

The Camerlengo, having recovered his wits, took over and called a recess until the next ballot in the afternoon.

The hours before the next ballot were hectic. Cardinals were buttonholed, argued with, coerced; and some even threatened. It was a most chaotic time. Cardinal Lugerwas the most active; tryingwith all his might to head off the coming disaster. The majority of the Cardinals said they were not going to buy a compromise just yet. They wanted to have an option on the next ballot. After all, they had already elected one who, it seems, was God’s choice. Most of those who had had the dream were indignant that another ballot was being held at all.

In the end, Cardinal Luger was like a beggar, standing at the hall doorway begging his colleagues to reconsider.

Please, brothers, please reconsider. You must stop this. Oh, my God! The Church is ruined.

Most passed him by in silence. Some, with a smile of encouragement, and his closest friends took him in hand and led him to his desk with the soft assurance that the world was not coming to an end.

Rather that it was, was his disconsolate answer.

There was a heavy silence in the room. One would have thought there would be at least some talking, but there was none. Carlos Cerda saw that his hand was shaking.

It is an awful thing we do here this day, he thought. It must be God’s will. After all, I’m not the only one. We are in the majority.

Oh, my God! he whispered, Grant that we not be in error. For we are humble men, we who are your servants. Watch over us this day, for we need you. After the whispered prayer, he took a firm hold of his pen and boldly wrote: James Michael. It is done! he exclaimed to no one in particular. However, everyone heard him as all faces turned toward the Papal Chamberlain. No reproof was forthcoming. A sort of serenity settled over the place as each silently took his ballot up front and placed it in the chalice with a little prayer.

Oh, God, I hope we have done the right thing, was most often heard, in many different languages. Even Cardinal Cresper, a constant companion of the conservative movement and an early member of Opus Dei, was terrified after writing what he thought was Del Atorini; looked on his ballot only to read James Michael. He tore up that ballot and started another. Once again that bloody name was there to discomfort him. He tried a third time. Then, in deep depression, he gave up and with a soul-wrenching sigh, he voted as was written on that third ballot.

Where one would expect an air of expectation, there was just the remnant of the earlier serenity as the ballots were counted. A neutral atmosphere was present, and all there felt the sure, soft touch of the Holy Spirit. The three scrutineers were almost giddy as they counted. The others watched in silent prayer.

Presently, Cardinal De Valitta took the tally paper, moved slowly towards one of the small chapels that were everywhere about, and knelt to say a prayer. When he had finished, he stood, turned, and walked back to the rostrum. His soul was in turmoil, but his mind was clear.

"My Brothers, we have the results. They are:

No one heard about the spoiled ballots as an explosion of questions and cries of insult drowned out Vincente’s voice. He staggered back as if a real hand had struck him. Then, gathering himself, like a punched- out fighter trying for one more effort, he moved forward and held up both arms for silence. Slowly, the room settled into expectation, giving

Vincente a moment to address the college.

It is now official. We have a new Pope, whoever he is. God have mercy on us. WHAT DO WE DO NOW? was his parting cry.

Carlos Cerda stood up and moved to the front. Now that it was finished and had become a fact, he felt energized by it all. Brothers, all is not as gloomy as it might at first appear. We know the name James Michael and the fact that he has a birthmark on the back of his neck. I have seen this mark. So our first step is to form a committee to bring together a group of trusted people to scour the earth for this James Michael and bring him to us. We should start our search in the English-speaking countries, as that name would most likely be found there. I would like to nominate Cardinal Walsh to head this committee, which should be staffed with mostly English Language Cardinals. Possibly four more would suffice. Possibly Cardinal Porter and Cardinal Ruffin, Cardinal Morgan and Cardinal Nash would like to fill out the roster. We, of course, must stay here until this is resolved.

Surprisingly, it was done by acclamation. The five Cardinals moved quickly to find telephones to start the search. As for the rest, prayers were not only called for, but were delivered in abundance.

CHAPTER V

Ruffin, Porter, Morgan, Nash, and Walsh moved immediately to an adjoining office where the one official phone, for emergency calls only, was located. Cardinal Walsh made the call, and ordered that six phones located in another area be activated at once in strict confidence, as an explanation will be forthcoming when this is all over. Then the five got busy making phone calls to Papal nuncios and Bishops around the world. It was imperative they have the person to fit the name, as soon as possible. They started the ball rolling in England; then the United States, Canada, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa. The calls went out for information concerning anyone named James Michael born between 1930 and 1950 and baptized as a Catholic.

After twelve hours constantly on the phone, all five were in a state of imminent collapse. But, it had been done. Maxwell Ruffin turned to John Walsh and with a great sigh, said, I certainly hope the Almighty is appreciative of the effort this has taken.

There had been one line that had been left open for return calls. It rang now with such jarring suddenness that old Del Porter almost fell off his chair. Walsh grabbed it up in such a hurry he dropped it and almost let go a choice curse. I’m getting too old for this kind of thing, he thought. Yes?.. .A little slower, please. Thank you.

We now have the first returns from England. There are 27 who fit our criteria.

Ring. Rinnnng. Rinnng. They didn’t stop ringing for the better part of 24 hours. Altogether there were 1,287 such people with that name baptized during those twenty years. Each Bishop had been given instructions to find all of them he could, and have someone check the back of their neck for a birthmark. If a birthmark was found, they were to bring that person to Rome by the fastest way possible.

Late on the forth day, a call came in to say that a birthmark had been detected on a person in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. They were on their way now and should be in Rome sometime to-morrow morning.

Indeed it is a miracle! thought John Walsh, as he slowly walked away from the phone and went looking for the Camerlengo. At least there is such a person, drifted through his mind. In four short days they had found the one man with the criteria needed to be their leader—out of all the six billion on earth. That is certainly something to be proud of. In reality, he had thought it might take as long as a month, possibly more. It also was indicative of the fact that a higher power was indeed somewhere behind all this.

While Cardinal Walsh was looking for Vincente Attiri, a meeting of sorts that had been going on for the past four days was just breaking up. It is decided, then; either you or I will be the one to kill this man if he turns out to be a threat to our Holy Mother the Church. No price is too great to be paid for the safety of our Lord’s Church. These words, that should have brought nothing but revulsion to the mind of a Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church, were actually the words of the self-same Cardinal. One James Winston Cassidy.

James Cardinal Cassidy, Archbishop ofWestminster, and soon to be a murderer by his own admission, was born on the 26th day of July, 1942, at number 33 Konstell Road, Manchester, England. He was educated through the English school system; studied at the Seminary of St. Mary Oscott and the English College, Gregorianum, Apollinaris, in Rome. He was ordained Feb. 26, 1966, at the age of twenty-four, consecrated Auxiliary Bishop of Manchester on Dec. 3, 1980; and succeeded to the See of Manchester, Jan. 13, 1983, at the age of forty-one. On Sept. 16, 1995, he became Archbishop ofWestminster, and received the Red Hat of a Cardinal on Oct. 4, 1997.

James Cassidywas born into a lowerworking class family. His father was a letter carrier in Manchester. From an early age he was aware that his grandfather was once a Catholic-hating Orangeman who converted to Catholicism shortly after arriving from Ireland. No one seemed to know just why he did this, and although James knew his grandfather, as a very young boy he had certainly been far too young to ask him.

His parents formed an uneasy partnership, which was more hostile than loving. ‘Little Jimmy’, which he was called and could never shake, found comfort from his parents continuous warfare in the certain formality of the Church. This tended to set him apart from his friends, as they handled similar problems by simply dismissing their parents as of little value except for sustenance, if even for that. Jimmy was alone and very lonely much of the time, so he sought solace in the ritualism he found in his religion. Even though he had three sisters, or possibly because of it, he grew up fearing females in all but the most superficial social occasions.

He grew up to be a medium-sized individual. He was 5’ 10" in height, and weighed in at about 165 lbs. He had steel-gray hair and a typical English/Irish ruddy complexion. He walked with a slight limp; compliments of a stray mortar bomb while on maneuvers as chaplain to the Manchester Fusiliers in the summer of 1978. It was during his time recovering in hospital that he came face to face with the possible loss of his vocation. He fell head over heels in love with Mary Elizabeth Clayton, his ward nurse. The emotions thus loosened caused him such fear and anguish that he ran from them with all his strength. His fear of women and things sexual was quadrupled. As a consequence, he embraced the conservative attitude towards Catholicism, and has held on for dear life ever since.

It was at the English school in Rome that he met the other person in the room. They found they had a similar outlook on religion, so had formed a loose association between themselves and with other like- minded prelates who came into their sphere of influence. Although at this time there were almost thirty individuals within their conservative circle, Jimmy felt that his friend of these many years was the only one he could really trust with this most delicate subject.

The other man, just moving to open the door, was Devon Cardinal Luger, the Cardinal Archbishop of Cologne, a friend and long-time colleague. He turned back and spoke softly to Jimmy. Pray, my brother. Pray with all your strength that you will never have to go through with this. I know you have convinced me that this dreadful action may be necessary, but even now I really don’t think I could go through with it, unless it was a direct order from Our Lord. And as you so well know, He hasn’t shown any inclination to give direct orders in the past thousand years or more.

Just then Cardinal Del Atorini burst into the room. My God! My God! he was saying. Oh, my God!

What is it, Mario? Why so distraught?

They’ve found him. I didn’t think this madness could ever go this far. They have actually found someone who fits that description, and…and they’re bringing him here. He’s on the way as we speak. We must do something. Something, anything; but do something. Please, tell me it’s not possible for Our Lord to be involved in this. He wouldn’t do that to us, would He?

No, Mario. He wouldn’t do such a thing to us, Cassidy almost whispered.

"Just thinking about the possibility sends shivers of horror through

V me,

Mario sighed.

I think it best that we wait and see what kind of person they have found. When we determine that, then we will know how to act, said Cassidy.

I can’t help wondering who this fellow is…he thought. There must be some weakness in his background. Somewhere, somehow, we will find it.

He moved to the Prie-dieu and fell to his knees. The burden becomes greater with each passing day, he mused to himself. Then, turning to his God, Oh my God, please show me the way. I have grown old in your service and I know no other way to live. Please say that this is not what you want. We have planned an awesome and horrendous act to protect your Church. Will you not give us a sign that what we do is your will. Then, with fire and brimstone flashing with every word, he shouted, The gates of hell shall never prevail against your Church. NEVER! As long as I live, my life is yours, my Lord. Do with me as you wish, but please, please, do not let them destroy what we have taken so long to build.

Presently he got up, looked with sympathy at Mario Del Torini, and softly closing the door behind him, slowly made his way to find out the facts of this impending disaster.

CHAPTER VI

Frank Keyes found Father Aaron Miller sitting behind a desk, probably his boss’s, in a nice office on the second floor of the Vatican Radio studios. His short legs were propped up on the desk, and he was leaning back on his chair, almost to falling, reading a newspaper.

Hey, Miller! Frank called, and Miller, being startled, fell over on his ass with a great yelp. He got up, rubbing the back ofhis head. Jesus! Frank, don’t do that. It is Frank, isn’t it?

Geeze, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry. Yea, I’m Frank Keyes. New York Times.

Come on in. Have a seat. So, what can I do for you?

Well, you could tell me the name of the guy their eminencies have made Pope.

Don’t you wish.

Have you seen my column to-day?

No. I just started to read the Times when you came busting in here like a storm trooper, was served up with a bit of petulance.

Well, go ahead, feast your eyes. You’ll see I just may have scooped them all today.

Miller read the article with a frown on his face. His Tich, tich, certainly indicated a truck-load of disapproval. He finished, slowly folded the paper, and stared across the desk at Frank.

I don’t know what to say. This is absolutely terrible. How did you get this? They will think you got it from me. How could this happen? Can…

"Whoa, there, partner; for a guy who doesn’t know what to say, you sure got a lot of questions. For one thing, I didn’t get anything from you, and I’ll tell anyone you want me to that you’re not my source—so calm down. You’ll have a heart attack, for God’s sakes.

I have this information, and a short while ago I heard that you knew about it, so I came over here to see if we can compare our stories. You know, for accuracy.

For accuracy! When have you guys been worried about accuracy? You people will print anything. Accuracy is an afterthought for the American Press.

Now that’s not very charitable.

Just then the phone rang. Miller answered and spoke in Latin. The tricky bastard! After he hung up, he steepled his hands in front of his chest, and looking like the cat who ate the canary, smiled over at Frank.

"I trust you don’t understand