Mystic Arena

By Pat Gooley

Some time in the indefinite future, when Fr. Robert Breslin, a Redemptorist priest on missionary assignment in Africa, discovers he has the ability to see things happening many miles and even continents away and can, in some cases, interact with those events, he notifies his religious superiors. Sent to Rome for evaluation, he convinces a few ranking members of the curia of his abilities. Kept on a short leash in Rome, he still sometimes slips the bounds. Introduced to the U.S. navy attaché in Rome, he also has to keep his secret even as they become friends. In Africa, a new organization, under the leadership of a Syrian referred to as the Mahdi, is trying to establish a Muslim caliphate throughout the continent. It trains and equips terrorist operatives for assignments as far away as North America and as near as Rwanda, in southeastern Africa. Using cargo ships as floating bombs, smuggling, and even use of a nuclear weapon are among their plans. Fr. Robert has to act when he sees his best friend murdered by one of the terrorists. With the help of three friends, Fr. Robert must try to confront the murderer and attempt to prevent many more, even as other terrorist plans are in the works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635681918

Book preview

Author’s Note

Some of the chapters are not in strict chronological sequence. The story of Father Robert is, but secondary characters, such as Abu Harb and Mutara, are, if you will, stand-alone items at times. Sometimes it seemed a good idea to interrupt the main flow with another thought. I hope you enjoy the read.

Any errors in details on geographical or technical issues are entirely my own. The book is set sometime in the indefinite near future.

Many thanks to the good people at Page Publishing, especially Michael Yarnell, my publication coordinator.

Chapter 1

The bishop isn’t going to like it, Father.

No, I expect not, agreed Father Robert Breslin, C.Ss.R, miserably. He won’t like it at all. I had to ask him to visit so I could explain. He has to see no harm was intended, and that I did not violate any sacraments or sacramentals. I think the main danger now may be scandal.

Scandal is bad, Father. Scandal is bad enough. Mutara looked sadly at his pastor. He thought they had done nothing wrong, but it was clear Father Breslin had severe qualms about it. It was also clear he was determined to tell all to the bishop and accept the consequences. They waited for His Excellency’s arrival, sitting on a bench outside the small Bishando parish church.

Mutara was right; the bishop of Byumba did not like it. He was shocked and amazed by what Father Breslin told him, and His Excellency Bishop Smaragde Agbatnou was not easily amazed by many things of this world. He was fifth son of a poor Hutu farmer, now pastor of more than half a million souls in his diocese in northern Rwanda. He was humbled every day when he said Mass and realized his Lord and God was present with him in the bread and wine he consecrated into the body and blood of his Lord and Savior given him to eat and drink. He was shocked, amazed, and very, very worried by what this Redemptorist missionary had told him.

Perhaps you can demonstrate this ‘viewing,’ as you call it? suggested the bishop shortly after his arrival. He had declined tea and got straight to the point. I must say, it sounds hard to believe just on your description alone.

Yes, Your Lordship, replied Father Breslin. I thought we might see how the villagers on the other side of the lake are doing. He furrowed his brow, absentmindedly cleaning his left ear with his little finger as he looked out in the garden behind the small church. They were now sitting under a thatched awning in front of Mutara’s red brick cottage, a three-room building Father Breslin shared when he was in this village. He concentrated and a square area appeared in front of them.

In a few seconds, they were looking at something other than squash and corn plants. Bishop Agbatnou gasped. They were looking at what appeared to be the village well in Kaishanga, which the bishop had passed the previous day on his way here to the village of Bishando. The area about thirty meters around the well was visible, and several of the red-walled buildings on a nearby terrace were visible. A few banana trees waved in the breeze. A charcoal seller trundled his cart through the open space around the well. The bishop blinked hard when a woman he recognized from the Kaishanga parish walked past the well. He looked at Father Robert and Mutara, then back, and the woman walked out of the area and simply disappeared! The sun was low above the horizon and getting ready to set in thirty minutes or so.

Stop it! said the bishop. The square went away. Bishop Agbatnou was badly shaken. Is it real? he asked shakily, standing up and looking at what was now just a garden.

As far as I can tell, yes, replied the priest. In fact, let me do something different. I will not tell you what to expect. Instead, each of us writes down what he sees.

They each got a pencil and some paper. At a nod from the bishop, Father Breslin started concentrating. This time, they were looking at a river somewhere, and the viewing area was considerably larger, perhaps one hundred meters on a side. The scenery was clearly not in Africa. Robert knew the trees along the river bank were Douglas fir, ponderosa pine, and a few red-barked Pacific madrone. Mutara and the bishop knew they were seeing something that looked not at all like northeast Rwanda. The land sloped up steeply from the bank and a set of wooden steps came down. Blackberry bushes with ripe fruit formed a tangled mat as tall as a man. The light was different, a morning sun. It was also less intrusive than the African sun, further away, milder. Two people in an aluminum boat were picking berries from the brambles cascading down the river bank to the water’s edge. They were wearing jeans and short-sleeved shirts and gloves as they picked the sweet fruit. One was a woman; she wore a straw hat, but obviously store made, not like the hats some of Father Robert’s parishioners wove from the local grasses. The view shifted downstream, and they could see people fishing from a wooden dock. A floating section of dock, supported by barrels under the lumber, bobbed in the water. Three white men, wearing jeans or shorts and T-shirts, laughed and talked as they sat on chairs and tended their lines. One of the shirts had a picture of a rooster on it and an English caption about a rooster crowing contest. One of the fishermen was drinking a can of something—Blit, it said on the side. The bishop had never heard of such a drink.

A boat sped by, pulling a girl behind on a water ski. The wake caused the floating part of the dock to bob more rapidly. Another can tipped over, spilling brown liquid that dripped through the boards. The man with the rooster shirt leaned down and righted the can. Thinking better of it, he lifted it and set it in a slot in the arm of the folding canvas chair he was using while he fished. He reeled in his line, checked the bait, and recast upstream. A red–and-white bobber floated slowly back past the dock as another fisherman prepared to retrieve and cast again.

Can they see us? asked the bishop.

Not now, replied the priest. I can see or be seen, and right now, I don’t think we want them to see us.

Absolutely not. In fact, I’ve seen enough.

Father Robert let the view stop, and they again were looking at the squash and corn plants near Mutara’s house. The setting sun reflected off banana trees on a hill to the east.

They silently wrote, then, without a word, exchanged their notes.

I am convinced, said the bishop after perusing Robert’s and Mutara’s notes, all three of us noted nearly the same details. What is Blit?

It’s an American beer, Your Lordship, Blitz Weinhard from the Pacific Northwest where I grew up. Actually, I thought they were out of business, but maybe not.

So we were looking at somewhere near your home?

Yes, along the Rogue River in southern Oregon. I grew up north of there, near Roseburg, but we used to go camping at a state park near where we saw the fishermen. The area we saw is a reservoir behind a dam on the Rogue. Besides fishing, camping, and recreation, the dam provides electricity.

And we were looking at this place in America? So you can see things in other places and other people can see them too? Astounding! The bishop stood and stretched his back. He was still somewhat incredulous, but what he had seen and what the other men had written convinced him that something remarkable was occurring here.

Uh, there is more, Your Lordship.

The bishop groaned, More?

Yes, Your Lordship. I can have up to three squares at once, if one of them is around me. People in the other squares can see and hear me. I, uh, used it to say Mass on Easter so three villages could have Mass instead of only one.

The bishop nearly fainted. He sat down, hard.

Robert looked down at the ground.

The bishop said quietly, Continue, please, Father.

I said Mass in Kaishanga, and at Communion time, Mutara here distributed communion from hosts I had consecrated the week before. Kizira, over in Bwiboga, did the same. They both remembered the sermon.

Bishop Agbatnou frowned. Go on. First, how do you do this? I hope you are not trying to use magic. That would be utterly wrong and could make you at risk to demonic possession.

I concentrate on what I want to see, and soon it is there. I don’t practice anything of magic. I do not think of this as any kind of miracle, magic, or demonic activity. I think it is some sort of innate ability that has manifested itself, but I cannot imagine why. But, umm, that is not all, Your Lordship.

Between clenched teeth the bishop hissed, Please tell me all. I must understand what is going on before I decide what we will do.

Umm. The little finger was in father’s ear again.

I hope you do not do that during Mass, said the bishop. He took a deep breath. Please tell me all the rest of your situation so I may know it.

I, uh, I, umm, I can make my square and another overlap and people and things can move from one to the other, blurted Father Breslin, once he got started.

Say that again, more slowly, ordered the bishop.

I can merge my square and another, and as long as they overlap, I can be in another place, or people and objects in another place can come to me, or I can go to them. Once, I was able to put the square over a merry-go-round during a parish festival. Many of the children will never see one otherwise, much less take a ride. Last time I said Mass in Bwihanga, Mutara came to me after Mass and I gave him this pyx. He had it when I got back here.

The bishop stared open-mouthed at his priest. I am not sure I believe you, Father Breslin. If this is some kind of illusion or joke, I do not appreciate it.

No, really, Your Excellency, Your Lordship, it is fact, pled the priest. Mutara nodded. It is so, my lord, he said, just as Father has told you.

I can show you, said the priest. I can make a smaller square. Is there something at the chancery or your residence that you know for a fact is in Byumba right now?

The bishop thought a moment. The chancery should be empty right now. Let us go there, as you say. The front entrance, inside.

Father Breslin nodded. We can only act in the overlapped area. I can move it, but we are still limited to being in a small area at a time. He furrowed his brow, visualizing the inside entrance to the chancery office, where he had visited perhaps six times during his several years as a missionary in Rwanda. A small square, perhaps five meters on a side, came in view. He concentrated, and the chancery office glided toward them until they were looking inside the office itself, and the village of Bishando could be seen no more. Or were they standing in the office? The bishop swallowed his fear and walked over to a wooden umbrella stand in the corner and picked up an umbrella from it. He nearly dropped it when he realized what he had just done—or had he? The bishop grasped the umbrella and gasped, Take us back.

In a moment, they were back to the red-and-green of the village. Red brick, red soil, green hills, and rows of green vegetables filled most of the open areas. The bishop’s white Land Rover and the whitewashed church stood out in the predominant colors. The smell of charcoal burning filled the air as women prepared the evening meal. Banana fronds waved in the setting sun. The bishop looked at the squash plants and corn stalks in front of them. There was no sign they had walked among them. Nothing was trodden down or broken. If this was an illusion, he could not begin to explain how it had been done.

Back in Bishando, Bishop Agbatnou walked around the small church. He held a green-and-white striped umbrella that said Raffles Hotel on it and had a merlion, a sea horse or mermaid tail with a lion’s head, on the other side. He had bought it in Singapore during a conference on social justice just a few months ago, and he believed it was the only such umbrella in Rwanda right now. He said nothing, just strolled with the umbrella over his head, though there was no sun or rain to keep off him now.

Father Breslin watched him, afraid to break the silence. He realized his knees were trembling.

Bishop Agbatnou closed the umbrella, sat, and put his head down. He changed his mind and knelt. The priest and the layman knelt as well. They knelt, each praying silently, for about ten minutes. Bishop Agbatnou rose easily to his feet. He was slim, athletic looking, and very fit for his age. He had been a bishop for nearly seventeen years, having been elevated at the age of forty-seven. He stood relaxed as the priest and the African layman rose to their feet. He looked up at the tall American missionary. I must confer with the archbishop in Kigali. I feel you have not intended nor done evil by your actions, but demonic influence still cannot be ruled out. In the meantime, do not use, discuss, or demonstrate this ability or whatever it may be again until then. This is a matter of obedience. The archbishop and I will confer, and I will contact you again in several weeks. Better yet, come to the chancery in six weeks. He checked a calendar in his briefcase. Make that 29 September. Bring a packed bag for travel.

Packed bag, Excellency?

Of course, my son. I imagine you will be going to Rome.

Chapter 2

Father Breslin and Mutara knelt and kissed the bishop’s ring before he left. He drove off in his Land Rover, bumping up the dirt road in the twilight.

Father Breslin and Mutara looked glumly at one another. Robert’s eyes filled with tears. I am sorry, my friend, he rasped. I did not think, but the bishop is probably right. I will probably be required to go to Rome, whether what I did is considered right or wrong. I did not intend any harm, and I hope the diocese will find someone to visit you while I am in Rome. I hope they let me return.

Mutara’s eyes were shiny too. Until that time, Father Robert, and I do hope you return. We need you here.

And before I leave in September, I will consecrate enough hosts for about six weeks of services. Find someone to make a suitable container, one that cannot open by accident. The inside should be plated in gold or silver, if possible. I can leave one of you the ciborium, but I need at least five more containers larger than what each parish has now. We use big jars for the unconsecrated hosts, but something that cannot be confused with the jars is what we need.

After a simple meal of squash and corn with some bananas, they discussed several designs and options for their super-pyx then said the holy office for night and went to their respective beds.

The next day, Father Breslin loaded his bags into his rickety Land Rover and chugged north to some of his other parishioners. He had been in Bishando for his usual three days, and it was time to start the rounds again. He baptized several infants in the next village, heard confessions, said daily Mass, and helped with chores and minor medical help. Then he went on to another of his villages for two days much alike. And his days were much the same as he waited with trepidation for his trip to Byumba. He drove on the red dirt roads, rarely on paved ones, and he stopped at some individual family compounds where some Catholic Tutsi families lived away from the villages that were predominantly Hutu.

When he got back to Bishando in the early afternoon about twelve days after the bishop’s visit, Mutara met him with a smile. I talked with Kazi the tinker, and I think he has what we need.

Go on, replied the priest as he brought his travel rucksack into the small room in Mutara’s house he used during his stops in Bishando. Mutara brought a metal box in from the other room and handed it to the priest. Father Robert turned the box carefully in his large hands and opened it. It was pewter and had a volume of about a liter. The hinged lid fit tightly, and a small hasp could be fastened to keep it closed. He calculated briefly—it would hold about a thousand hosts, and the lid could be tied to avoid accidental opening. It looks suitable under the circumstances, he said. I really didn’t expect gold. I think pewter is a suitable substitute for precious metal in this case. It’s a bit heavy, but you could keep it here and transfer to your regular ciborium for services.

Kazi has five of them.

How much?

Ten American dollars each?

Ten? Haven’t you tried to bargain him down?

Mutara looked hurt. I am insulted—of course I bargained. He started by asking for thirty dollars each. I laughed and said they were not worth thirty francs. We worked from there. I think it a good price.

Father