Hope

By Robert De Cristo Fano

Haunted by his abilities
Gian searched the world for answers
before he returned to the Vatican.
There Faith his soulmate, and Pablo, her brother, battle with forces bent upon their destruction.
Once home Gian continued to struggle
even though everything about him was supernatural.
His nightmares continued.
He fought to find the truth.
Until
he uncovered a secret hidden for decades.
One that changed everything
And the lives of everyone he loved
a secret that placed all of their lives in jeopardy.
Four young people are about to change the world
Sometimes all you need is
HOPE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456715632

Robert De Cristo Fano

Robert De Cristofano is the author of two published works of fiction, FAITH and IDENTICAL. His novels transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. His world is one in which anyone can become a hero. HOPE is his third work of fiction where readers live in a world where love matters, in a place where God lives and anything is possible. A place where anyone can become someone that makes a positive difference in the world. Robert is a Pediatrician who lives and works in New Jersey.

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© 2011 Robert De Cristo Fano. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/17/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1563-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1564-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1565-6 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010919035

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

This book is dedicated to all those who still … Believe.

CHAPTER ONE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THERE COMES A TIME IN one’s life when the answers to the questions we seek seem as distant as a falling star in another galaxy.

~~~~~

IN THE DARKNESS, A YOUNG man struggled. He fought, and just before he fell into unconsciousness, just before his body hit the floor with a loud thud, just before he closed his frightened eyes, he knew he was too late.

Time passed, unmeasured time—a minute, a day, a lifetime, ten lifetimes, an eternity unconscious in a world devoid of light. He reopened his eyes only to discover that he could not see anything at all. He gazed downward where his body should have been, and was startled by its absence.

He turned and looked directly into it, the nothingness that had enveloped him. He could feel it surround him. It began to suffocate him. He feared it.

It called out to him.

It called his name.

It taunted him over and over again with one simple word bestowed upon him at birth by his mother.

He wanted it to stop; he needed it to. He wanted to forget. He wanted to wake up and let this nightmare end, but in his weakness it grew stronger.

He closed his eyes, but it continued unrelentingly.

Gian! it beckoned in a sinister voice. He could feel it enter his body. Gian, you’ve lost.

Gian opened his eyes. He found the strength to fight.

He yelled out, I am Gian! Be afraid!

He closed his eyes; for a moment he was lost. Lost between two realities, two worlds—too lost to grasp where he was, too confused to understand, too weak to win.

Until the warmth of life returned, he could feel it enter; it saturated his soul. He awoke, and this time it was real.

His jet black hair, wet from the sweat of a nightmare, framed his chiseled face. His sharp blue eyes struggled to focus. At last he remembered. He knew the truth. He sat up in bed. He turned to face her.

She was there, sleeping beside him, his very own angel. It was early morning, and he knew that she needed her rest. He quietly moved to the edge of the bed and then stood. He looked at her. She was asleep. Thank God, he thought as he placed slippers upon his bare feet and wrapped a robe around his tall, thin frame, covering his sweat-soaked pajamas. He walked quietly to the bedroom door, opened it, and stole one last look. She looked so beautiful. He closed the door.

He walked into the elaborate hallway. It was empty. No one was about. In the wee morning hours, he was totally alone. He had no idea where he was going, and yet he felt compelled to continue. Then he knew, he just knew. He hurried toward a small kitchenette located on the same floor.

A sense of history surrounded him within the darkened corridors through which he traveled. The tall ceilings and ornate paintings upon the walls blurred together. Centuries of haunted ghosts followed him in silence.

He opened the door to the kitchen and found that he was not alone. A ray of light calmed him. He entered. Tranquility returned. He had arrived.

Bishop Uman was seated at the only small table in the space. His visage in the shallow light appeared frozen like so many of the paintings that had adorned the walls outside. His body leaned forward ever so slightly, a sign of his advanced age. The bishop did not seem surprised by the visitor. He held his hot beverage within his trembling fingers and sipped it. Gian approached. The bishop was expecting him.

Bishop Uman was a long-time resident of the Vatican. Fifty years earlier, he had entered its doors, a young man. He was ninety-two years old now and rarely seen outside his room.

Bon giorno, he spoke while his friend approached the table. His calm voice seemed to echo within the small chamber.

Bon giorno, Gian replied, pleased by his good friend’s presence, for he had been worried about him and his failing health.

Father Uman smiled as Gian neared, and Gian was surprised by it. The bishop had been a sad man of late; his frail body his worst enemy, for it trapped a robust spirit within its decline.

Gian sat down upon a chair opposite the good father. He did not smile in response to his friend, his saddened blue eyes a reflection of the worry within his soul.

The good bishop placed his cup upon the table and waited. Clad in a dark brown robe and slippers, he gazed upon the young man before him in the quiet of a small room in the darkness of an early morn. This encounter will be unlike any before, he thought, and each of them had been a revelation.

Gian was twenty-six years old, but his countenance revealed a troubled man. He was thin, thin enough for one to wonder if he ate only to survive. He was pale. A mane of jet black hair tumbled about his head. His deep blue eyes appeared troubled; his turbulent past had taken its toll.

Do you want some tea? the old priest asked.

Gian did not respond. Padre Vaticano, as everyone called him, offered another cup of his herbal blend to his friend.

Sip it, mio amico, the old priest spoke. He spoke English well, but the accent of his African heritage was always interspersed within his diction. It will help, he continued. It is a special blend, one that will help you to relax.

One had to look behind the mask to see the man at all. He was a tall, thin man, his skin as dark as the darkest night, his smile as bright as the brightest star. His wide open eyes beamed with joy, his face as loving as any proud parent.

Gian obliged his host. He drank the beverage carefully, for it was still hot. Nothing he had ever drunk before tasted quite like it. He looked into his friend’s kind brown face, and wondered. Something appeared different about him.

Do you know? Gian asked.

The faint first rays of daylight entered the room as he spoke.

Ah, mio figlio, if I did, would I be here with you? The old priest grinned; his sparse, silver-sprinkled black hair seemed to glisten upon his head.

Dear Jesus, Gian muttered as he turned to look upon a crucifix on the old cement wall nearby.

Ah, now He would know, the old priest replied.

Something is wrong, Gian proclaimed to his friend.

Something is always wrong, just as something is always right, Gian. It is the way of the world.

No, I mean, something is seriously wrong, Father, his emotion-filled voice fell upon sympathetic ears.

Nightmares can seem so real, the old priest spoke. His words startled the listener.

How do you know?

A wise man can deduce the truth. You are here in your pajamas, unable to sleep. Your face shows that this is not a new problem. If one pays attention to the unspoken, there is no need to speak.

What do you think it means? Gian asked out of desperation.

Our dreams, well, that is a discussion that could fill lifetimes, the priest replied. He gazed ahead. What happens when we close our eyes, that answer only a very few know.

Please tell me, Father, Gian pleaded.

Sleep, dreams, some say they are a gift from God; others fear them, haunted by the nightmares of their lifetimes. The elderly man paused before he continued with his explanation. It is one of the great mysteries, hidden within that part of our brain that is unaccounted for. Newborn babies smile when they dream, but as life evolves, children cry out in their sleep, afraid. The difference is life.

Life brings nightmares? Gian asked as a child might.

Life brings us joy and pain, as our sleep does. For those of us who cannot sleep anymore, sleep is but a beautiful dream that only the young enjoy.

But my life has been good. I’m here with Faith and our friends. We are safe at the Vatican. Faith is pregnant. We have been here eighteen months and things have been quiet.

And what about the future? the priest asked.

I know, Gian answered quietly, slowly, After the mission, I am afraid.

Within fear lies the answer that you seek, my son.

I am not afraid for myself, Father; let God’s will be done. I am afraid for my family, my future child, and my friends. Everything is unclear. The world is confused, and lost and angry.

Then you will teach them to have mercy, the old priest sighed as he sipped more of his brew.

They don’t hear me. They can’t see me, he gasped.

You underestimate them.

Nothing’s changed since, since … Gian stammered.

So much has, Gian. The world is a different place since you brought us miracles.

I don’t see it. Wars and poverty and murder still exist. They fill the newspaper headlines—the same ones that declared me a fraud.

Those destined to make a difference find the road long, the journey difficult.

Why must it be so?

Life is so, Gian.

But why?

You whose own mother was murdered, whose own father abandoned you as a child, whose own life has been in jeopardy, ask me why? You have preached the truth and have helped so many. You ask me for answers?

Yes, I pray that you can help me to understand, Father, he begged.

I can, the wise old man responded.

Then help me.

The darkness, the voices, the fear—it is all part of the journey.

But, Father, how do you know what is in my nightmares? I have not told anyone of them.

Evil visits us all, Gian. Most that cross over to the darkness are not aware of their descent until it is too late. They listen only to themselves and forget their inner voice. They forget their dreams and live in their nightmares.

Have I crossed over? Is this why I’m having nightmares? Gian pleaded.

No, my son, you have not. You still listen.

Are you sure?

I am.

Where is God?

God is everywhere, Gian, but so is his enemy. Look for God.

I am so lost.

We are just human, my son. We are not perfect; we can’t be.

I feel like such a failure, father. God has given me so much, and I have let Him down.

You could never let Him down, Gian.

I’ve tried with His help to speak to the world, and it seems as if nothing’s changed.

So much has.

I’ve visited with so many holy men from so many different religions on my mission. I have learned so much. I have acquired so much strength from them, so much knowledge. They expect so much, and I am still so lost.

They believe in you as I do, as Faith does, as everyone who knows you and loves you believes.

What? What do you believe?

We believe in God. We trust in Him. He has blessed you, my son.

Blessed. My mother died; she was killed. They wanted money or jewelry or anything worth something. They wanted to get high. Gian spoke and the depth of his despair was evident to the old priest. They killed her for nothing. Why does God allow horrible things to happen?

Gian awaited a response. When none came, his impatience grew.

My mother cleaned people’s houses. She was a good woman who never hurt anyone. He paused. He reflected upon what the elderly priest had said before he answered with the words he meant to say.

I don’t feel blessed, he whispered.

The chosen never do.

I am not chosen.

Listen Gian, and believe me, believe what I tell you. God is there. He is here. When one of His children suffers, like a good parent He is there. He is always there. Not one of His children is alone in pain; no one suffers alone. He is always there. Your mother died in her father’s arms, and she is with Him now.

The old priest reached out and touched Gian’s hand. Gian could not feel his hand upon his own. He was confused.

You are chosen. You and your … The old priest paused. I know this to be true. You touch the suffering of others with your hand and they feel the healing hand of God upon them. Their pain is lessened. They feel God’s presence, His healing miraculous power through your touch. That is why I am here with you today, to tell you that, and that is why I will always be with you. I love you, my son.

You sound as if you are saying good-bye. You can’t leave.

I will always be a part of your life.

"I was told on one of many encounters with the religious that this life, this existence, is a trial, another journey, one of many, where men are given free will to rise above the chaos, the confusion, and the pain, to remember our eternal self, the one that guides us home. We are closer to home when we follow our spiritual side, they said, and farther from it when we follow our animal side.

I feel lost, father. I feel as if my whole life is a lie. It eats away at me every day, and you can’t leave me until you tell me the truth, the truth of my existence.

The pope knows the truth, and very few others.

The pope is dying. He can’t speak to anyone.

He can speak to you, Gian.

Silence ensued, the quiet that allows you to see that which you could not before.

What happened to me on that day, father? Another period of silence ensued, an eerie silence. The gentle calm of the present was broken by a mention of the past.

The gentleman bishop responded in a kind voice. You know what happened that day, my son; you were there.

I don’t remember, Father. Gian’s voice pleaded for answers, his face as wanting as an infant for his mother.

You died Gian.

I know.

Then why do you ask me?

You know why.

Grab my wrists with your hands and you will remember.

Gian reached forward with his outstretched hands. He held on to the elderly man’s wrists.

My God, Gian whispered.

He closed his eyes. A tear fell upon his cheek. He began to remember.

CHAPTER TWO

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE HARSH WINTER WIND STRUCK the ancient windows of the Vatican with a century’s force. Within its ancient walls, a young man traversed the dark corridors alone, oblivious to it all.

Many had warned him. Secrets are best hidden. Truth kills fiction. The future is not the past, only one more irreversible step into the present. He could hear their voices echo their descent as he continued, but nothing could stop him.

A stained glass religious window to his left shattered as he passed. The fractured face of a glass angel cut his finger. His own blood smeared upon its painted angelic eyes before it hit the hard marble floors below and shattered. Gian sucked upon his finger with his dry lips and continued.

It was late. Everyone was asleep, everyone but Gian. He couldn’t sleep. He was awakened by a voice, one that told him to find Father Uman. He obeyed.

It was quiet, almost too quiet. The guards that normally would have blocked entry to this part of the Vatican were occupied in the main house. The pope had taken a turn for the worse; therefore many of his security forces were stationed at the hospital. The cloistered cardinal once protected from the outside world was vulnerable.

This wing of the ancient papal buildings was one of the original estates, an area off limits to most. A musty smell permeated the chilled air as a lone figure walked along. His footsteps echoed as he struck the old pavement with his new shoes. Thick curtains fell upon the windows covered with bars. Paintings of a divine nature hung upon the stark walls, one of which depicted the battle between good and evil. Gian approached the door that stood between him and his destination.

He paused to gaze upon the painting that had caught his eye; something about it engaged him. He had to stop and study it. The large elaborate mural depicted a universal struggle between the forces of evil and those of good. The blackened canvass encompassed several feet of the wall ahead.

He closed his eyes. A sense of dread encircled him. He had felt this way before, many months earlier. He remembered the night when he and Faith were viciously attacked on their way home. He sensed a similar evil then, and now it had returned.

He opened his eyes. He knew what he must do. He walked up closer to the large, ornate door before him and stood there, still, as if waiting for a sign. None came. He listened intently for any sound at all. He heard only the wind.

Again he was drawn to the painting. It captivated him. He could not look away. He followed it to the far end of the mural. It ended just as it reached the door. There in the midst of war, at the end of time, a light emerged out of the darkness.

He walked to the door.

He knocked.

No response.

He knocked again.

The door opened.

He entered.

No one was there.

The large room before him was elaborately decorated, lit only by small fixtures scattered about. He walked inside after he closed the door. Candles surrounded him, lit candles of every size. Ahead of him, a frail figure of a man sat by the window. The bishop’s back was all he could see as he approached. The priest’s thin, frail figure appeared to gaze out the large barred window into the dark night.

I have been expecting you, my son, my Gian, a voice spoke, just above a whisper.

How? Gian stuttered at last.

How did I know you were coming?

Yes, Gian was confused.

How do I know who you are?

Yes.

I just know. I can sense it. When one cannot see well, one can feel.

Why? Gian questioned as he approached the still figure.

Why am I alone? Why were you forbidden to see me? Why have you come, my young man?

I don’t understand.

It’s best that you never understand.

I need to know.

We all need to know.

I was told to come and find you in a dream, Gian replied.

An eerie silence followed an unseemly lapse of time, a period of quiet desperation.

I feel that you, father, Gian continued almost reluctantly, hold the answers to questions no one can answer, he struggled, his concerned voice cracked.

I wish that were true.

Please help me.

I wish I could. A sorrow-filled voice emanated from a weakened old religious man.

I have heard so much about you, Father.

And I you, my friend.

Cardinal— Gian began before he was interrupted.

I am not a cardinal. No one would bestow such a public title upon one such as me. I am an archbishop.

You are a man of God. Your title is not important.

A title holds respect and honor, but I do not believe in titles.

We have so much in common, Gian added.

This I do not see.

My life and yours are joined. Don’t you see that, Father? Can’t you feel what I feel? I needed to see you, and you knew that I would come.

The ways of the realm are mystical.

The realm—I have visited that place. I am haunted by it, captivated by it, Gian responded to the obvious dismay of his host.

Please leave, my young man. Go back to your life. The priest’s once quiet voice became agitated.

I can’t.

There is a difference between ‘I cannot’ and ‘I will not,’ Gian. No one is holding you here.

I am here just like you are. I am you, a prisoner, unable to leave.

I am dying, Gian.

Then please, Father, I beg you, please tell me what happened to you? Why are you here? Why can’t you leave? Why I am here with you tonight? Why can’t I leave?

You and I are so very different, Gian.

How? How am I different?

You are chosen, he answered just above the sound of the wind. Its fury rattled the plain glass window nearby.

The chosen are held prisoner, Father, Gian lashed out. The chosen are taken. They are tortured.

Yes.

I don’t believe you.

Then I will show you.

Within the shadows of the flickering candlelight and a nearby small lamp, an old man struggled out of his chair. Once erect, he turned ever so slowly to face the young man who came seeking answers.

My God! Gian exclaimed, his eyes focused upon the priest’s face.

There stood before him an elderly man ravaged by disease. He was blind, his eyes covered by a thick white film. He was scarred. His face contained many deformities. His hands were wrapped in white gauze stained with blood, his body twisted, and his feet partially wrapped in bandages.

Has God abandoned His healer? Has He abandoned you? Gian asked in astonishment.

No He hasn’t. He could never abandon me. It is I who had abandoned Him.

You suffer alone.

I am not alone, and I no longer feel pain.

How can you still believe when your body, your life … Gian’s gaze fell to the floor. He could not finish his sentence. He had to look away.

You, my son, have been beaten, almost killed. Your mother was murdered, your friends hurt. You left everything behind and live far away from home. You suffer in silence, and yet you still believe.

Those who suffer so much more than me, so much more, believe.

That is why you are remarkable.

The frail bishop paused to gaze upon the sad and quiet young man before him as Gian looked up at him. Gian’s pensive, piercing blue eyes searched for the religious man behind the monster that hid him; he needed to find him. He knew that he was there.

I see you, Father, Gian began, I see a man of God before me.

Where is God? The old priest asked, startling his visitor.

God is here.

God is here? the elderly man asked. God has caused me this pain. He has kept me prisoner?

God did not do any of those things.

He did not stop them, either.

He can only do what He can on this earth; we must do the rest.

Your belief is strong. But tell me, Gian, does faith disappear as life passes? The old priest challenged the young man before him.

No, Father, I pray that it never does.

Your faith is strong like your father’s.

You did not know my father; do not speak of him.

The pope knows, Gian, that of which I speak. Do not forget that.

The pope is dying. You are the only one left who can help me.

I have seen so much death. I have witnessed so much despair, so much destruction. I cannot help myself. I pray for faith every day. I will always believe, but I am weary. It is almost time, and I feel so unworthy.

Now I know why I have come. Gian spoke as the elderly priest struggled to turn around and sit. I have come to help you.

Gian, I have heard of your miracles, but you cannot help me. I can only hurt you.

You have helped so many. You could never hurt me.

My past can, my pain can.

I am told that you were given the power to heal with your touch. God gave you a power that only Jesus and a chosen few have had. You are a miracle worker, Father.

I am not a miracle worker. The old priest spoke the words he felt to be true.

You are a living saint. The quick and assured response surprised the old priest.

I am not, the elderly man spoke in a tone so different, his voice appeared that of another.

No, Father, you are; you who sit here in silence, in pain, yet remain true to God.

A saint never kills out of anger, Archbishop Uman answered.

What? Gian paused to take a deep breath. I will not believe that you ever took anyone’s life, unless you had no other choice.

We are always given a choice, Gian.

You would never choose to kill, Father—never.

You don’t know me, son.

I can feel your truth, your soul, your inner strength.

I need to tell you a story, my son, but will you accept it?

I want to know the truth.

The truth of the story, of my life, my life, are you sure?

I am here to listen and to learn.

You are here for more than that, Gian.

You answer one question and leave me with another.

Life is full of questions.

I need for you to tell me that which I must know, Gian demanded.

A civil war tore my native land apart, the priest began, his gaze fixed upon his young visitor. A conflict in my country killed many innocent people. One tribe tried to destroy another solely based on where one was born and to whom. Women were raped. Children were murdered without guilt.

The silence in the room told its own tale—words spoken, the past remembered—all of it caused a quiet, a quiet called hurt.

My family was slaughtered when I was just a child, he continued, his disfigured eyes filled with tears. I watched them die from under my bed, the place where my mother had hid me. A pause ensued, a moment where both men fought back tears.

I did not know that my mother was raped as my father watched. I did not know that until many years later. My father watched as she was killed. They made him watch. Then it was his turn to be killed. I closed my eyes. I did not want to see anymore but it was too late. It was too late. I fell asleep a child and woke up a monster.

A child cannot become a monster, Gian interrupted

You are wrong. I was raised a soldier by soldiers, taught by soldiers, and revenge was my middle name, he declared. By the time I was sixteen I was ready. I had no one. My friends were guns and swords and other soldiers just like me.

A silence fell upon him, the one who could not continue with a tale he wished he could forget. In his silence, he prayed for strength.

I brutalized villages. The elderly man paused. I killed so many.

The frail bishop peered out the window. It was as if he could see through the night behind the glass, as if he could behold the majestic tree swaying in the late night wind a half mile away.

I can still see their faces, he continued, I will always see their faces.

You were just a child, Gian interrupted.

The priest continued quietly, One day I wanted it to end. I prayed for it to end. I left my unit and begged for an answer. I thought that revenge would make me become human again; somehow I thought that if I killed my enemy, my pain would be less, but it wasn’t. It was more. I felt lost. I was alone. I had abandoned everything that I knew. I prayed for an answer. For so long, no one answered. I felt dead inside.

The old man struggled to continue. It was as if he could not open his mouth. Some memories seemed too painful to recount.

It is then that I knew what I had to do. I returned to the places where my enemy lived. He continued quietly, his words measured, his voice weak. I felt the need to go back. I could not live with what I had done.

A lone bird perched upon the window sill where the father stood. It began to sing its song. The priest listened until it flew away.

In my enemy’s villages, I found many who were injured, some dying. I told them who I was. I helped them. I prayed for them.

And they did not try to kill you? Gian interrupted.

No.

God was with you then.

Father paused for a moment to think before he spoke.

"A young man who was blind approached